The low, resonant hum of the secondary differential engine vibrated through the deep granite soles of the subterranean vault.
Clouds of white cooling steam drifted toward the high-domed ceiling, escaping through the brass exhaust flues that led up into the palace gardens above. The air inside the chamber was hot, sharp with ozone, and thick with the heavy scent of hot machine oil.
Prince Bastian stood at the edge of the granite dais, his lever-action rifle held loosely across his thigh. His dark wool coat was dark with coal soot, his dark eyes fixed on the heavy iron doors of the vault.
Behind him, Foreman Haddon and twenty union riflemen stood in tight formation around the arrested palace guards. Lord Sterling Vane sat on a wooden supply crate against the far pillar, his pristine blue velvet coat torn, his pale left wrist wrapped tightly in a blood-stained linen bandage.
