It was not the sterile, calculated heat of an imperial furnace, nor was it the clean copper-burn of Gwen's internal solar grace. It was a crude, massive bonfire built from the heavy timber of the calcified ash-woods, its flames roaring twenty feet into the heavy atmosphere, throwing thick, oily black smoke against the basalt ceiling. The fire smelled of pine resin, damp earth, and the raw, iron-scented blood of the three remaining free nations of the North.
Around the perimeter of the firelight stood four thousand survivors—the total ledger of the living.
