The Citadel of Crowns did not smell like the mountain. At Valmere, the air was sharp with pine and the electric ozone of a fresh mana-storm. Here, the air was a heavy, suffocating blend of expensive oils, blooming jasmine, and the metallic tang of polished marble. I walked through the Great Hall, my boots—scuffed and caked with the dried blue silt of the Deep-Vein—leaving a trail of grit across the white-and-gold tiles.
Beside me, Cael and Mira looked like they wanted to disappear into the tapestries. Behind us, the Centurion rumbled. I had refused to leave it in the docks. After the "malfunction" in the pumps, I wasn't letting my primary asset out of my sight. The Royal Inquisitors had tried to block the entrance, but Lady Vesper had cleared the way with a single, sharp look.
"Keep the Friction Loop at a low hum," I whispered to the construct. "If you melt the King's floor, we're going to have a very short career in the South."
