The wind at the mouth of the Vernhardt silver mines shrieked. Herschel stood on a high wooden gantry, his heavy cloak snapping violently in the gale. Below him, the massive cavern of the primary vein looked like a gaping, festering wound in the side of the world. The King had officially tasked him with overseeing the transition of the mines to the Crown's control, a political move meant to strip the Duke of his last remaining source of power. But as Herschel looked down into the abyss, he realized he wasn't just auditing a business. He was witnessing a crime scene.
"Your Highness, please step back from the edge," a royal surveyor shouted over the roar of the wind, clutching a stack of parchment to his chest. "The structural integrity of this entire shelf is... questionable, at best."
Herschel didn't move. His boots were caked in the grey, ash-like dust that coated everything here. "How long has he been using the siphons?"
