The rhythmic thundering of sledgehammers and the high-pitched whine of automated lathes had become the new heartbeat of Iron Hearth. Inside the heavily fortified walls of Alpha Workshop—a restricted zone accessible only to the inner circle of House Sudrath—the air was a thick, cloying mixture of hot oil, ozone, and the acrid scent of human sweat. Rianor Sudrath had not slept in thirty-six hours. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites traced with jagged red veins, yet his fingers continued to dance across the drafting table with a frantic, rhythmic grace.
Mountains of blueprints, stained with graphite and grease, threatened to bury him. But Rianor didn't care. His world had shrunk to the tip of his pencil and the skeletal structure standing in the center of the bay.
