The late afternoon sun glinted faintly off the steel surface as the carriage approached.
The gates of the Iron Empire's capital towered over twenty meters high before them.
The steam-carriage ground to a halt. Its steel wheels hissed softly, white vapor billowing from the smokestack.
Roland stepped down first. His shirt was still grimy, the wound on his left shoulder not fully healed. Rianor followed, his left arm hanging limply with the completely dead Bracer, his cracked glasses slipping down his nose. Riven dismounted next, his hand resting near the hilt of his shortsword. The Dwarf King followed suit, his white-runed warhammer slung across his shoulder.
Grigori and Adrian were escorted out, their hands still bound by rune-etched chains. Grigori walked tall as usual, while Adrian moved with far more cautious steps.
