The Iron Sovereign cut through the indigo waters of the Southern Channel, but it
did not move with the triumphant, solar-powered glide of the Sanguine Empress's
flagship. It moved like a wounded beast, its iron plates groaning and its
internal copper pipes shrieking as the residual pressure of the Silt-Flood
transformation fought against the mundane reality of its coal-fired engines.
I stood on the aft deck, my feet braced against the vibration of the hull. The
humid Southern night air felt like a wet shroud, smelling of the ozone I had
released from the High Warden's Tower and the sharp, coppery tang of the
Sanguine Slag that still coated the railings in jagged, ruby-red streaks. I
looked back at the Port of Whispers. The city on the cliff was a constellation
of flickering orange fires and violet sparks, a beautiful, dying monument to the
era of the Alphas.
But it wasn't the fire that held my gaze. It was the water.
