The air forty feet beneath the main turbine floor was thick, cold, and heavy with the smell of wet soot and old lubricating oil.
Water dripped in steady, rhythmic beats from the arched granite ceiling, splashing into the shallow trench that ran along the center of the stone passage. Above them, the low, continuous vibration of the main dynamos thrummed through the bedrock—a deep, mechanical pulse that vibrated in the soles of their boots.
Prince Bastian walked three paces ahead, holding a heavy copper inspection lantern in his left hand, his lever-action rifle carried low in his right.
Behind him, Elara Vance stepped carefully over the rusted iron cable trays. Her charcoal frock coat was dark with moisture, her silver-grey eyes scanning the raw stone walls where bundles of copper-clad telegraph wire snaked deeper into the mountain foundation.
