The subterranean air beneath the High Chamber felt fifty degrees colder than the smoke-choked courtroom above, thick with the damp reek of stagnant river silt, wet iron rust, and ionized ozone.
Prince Bastian led the descent down the narrow granite stairs, his boots moving silently over the slick, frost-coated stone. In his left hand he carried a lit oil lantern, its pale flame casting long, erratic shadows against the ancient masonry; in his right, his heavy iron side-arm remained leveled at the dark landing below.
Behind him came Elara, holding the zinc tray containing the master paper ledger against her ribs with iron precision. Her linen-wrapped fingers were stained dark with coal dust and ink, but her grey eyes were clear, reflecting the harsh emerald glare that pulsed from the archway ahead.
Sarah and Thomas Vance brought up the rear, guarded by six armed hauler militia members whose rifles were cocked and ready.
