The maintenance vent was a narrow, lead-lined throat of rusted iron. It was never intended for human passage, let alone a squad of four combatants in full tactical gear. The heat inside the shaft was oppressive, a heavy and wet blanket that smelled of sulfur and ancient scale. Above them, the primary steam pipes of the Iron Labyrinth groaned under immense pressure. They screamed with a high-pitched whistle that vibrated through the very marrow of Vane's bones.
Vane led the way. He had his star-steel spear disassembled and strapped to his back to save space in the tight conduit. He moved with a rhythmic, sliding motion. He was using the Argent Horizon to minimize the friction of his suit against the metallic walls. Every inch of forward progress was a lesson in spatial geometry. He had to calculate the position of his elbows and knees to ensure he did not strike the iron casing. In the silence between the steam whistles, even a small metallic clink could be fatal.
