Inside the Hall of Gear, the steam lamps on the ceiling flickered rhythmically. The hum of gears behind the walls droned on, a sound like the heartbeat of a mechanical giant that never slept. It was late afternoon, but the sky outside the windows remained a stubborn leaden gray. It was never truly bright in Brassvale.
Emperor Volco sat upon his throne, his fingers tapping the armrest in a slow, unhurried cadence. His cold eyes were fixed on a massive map spread across the side table. Two red dots pulsed atop the weathered parchment. One to the east—the Forest of Lamentation, where the Architect and the Maiden lay in hiding. The other to the south—the border shared with Ignis-Sol.
Two threats. Two directions. And Brassvale was caught in the middle.
