The stone floor of the Great Workshop District was never truly still. It possessed a sub-sonic tremor, a constant, rhythmic thrumming that originated from the gargantuan geothermal pistons and steam engines buried in the lower strata of the mountain. The vibration traveled through the thick soles of Dayat's boots, creating an eerie sensation as if the entire city of Karak-Zorn were not a city at all, but a colossal, breathing organism made of rock and metal.
Dayat stepped out of the brass-lined elevator, his left hand instinctively tightening its grip on Dola's fingers. Behind them, the stolen Brassvale logistics carriage—now looking battered and soot-stained—was being towed by two Iron-Oxen. These were magnificent, blocky mechanical beasts forged from blackened steel, their eyes glowing with the steady hum of internal Mana-crystals as they pulled the heavy carriage toward a vast, open courtyard known as The Customs Plaza.
