Twelve hours.
The number hung in the stagnant air of the reliquary.
Ser Bryce pulled his head away from the vibrating stone ceiling. The logistics officer did not offer a range or a guess.
He provided a tactical limit.
"The machinery is industrial," Bryce reported to Prince Aerion. "They use heavy iron bits. The first layer of reinforced granite will fail in eight hours. The secondary support beams will collapse four hours after that."
Aerion crossed his arms. The silver plate of his armor caught the dim torchlight.
"What are the Royal Guard numbers above us?" Aerion asked.
"Two hundred minimum," Bryce answered. "Ayres committed a full battalion to this level. They carry standard Church steel and blood-magic buffs provided by the Cult of Saint Sophia."
Raziel stood in the center of the vault.
He felt the low frequency of the machinery travel through his boots and into his shins. His physical stamina sat at fifteen percent.
His palms were raw meat.
