The air inside the granite inspection tunnel beneath the collapsed trestle was deathly still, smelling of wet stone, ancient pine resin, and cold groundwater. Far above, the muffled thud-thud-thud of the Vanguard's steam hammers vibrated through two hundred feet of solid mountain rock, but down in the narrow, hand-carved shaft, the world was reduced to the scrape of wet boots and the ragged sound of breathing.
Elara walked second in the single-file line, her hand trailing along the slick, cold stone wall to keep her balance. Her charcoal wool coat was heavy with trapped moisture, the hem frayed and darkened by river silt, but her grey eyes were clear, reflecting the pale yellow beam of the small oil lantern Julian held at the front.
