Thick plumes of white steam spiraled toward the high-vaulted ceiling of Master Ironbeard's private workshop, rising from the surface of the gargantuan Coolant Tank tucked into the far corner. Inside the copper-bound vessel, Dola lay perfectly still, submerged in a cocktail of purified glacial water and crushed mana-ice crystals. The liquid shimmered with a pale, ethereal azure light as it greedily absorbed the excess thermal energy radiating from her synthetic skin.
Dayat stood at the edge of the tank, his reflection staring back at him from the rippling surface. He looked like a ghost of the man who had arrived in Terragard. His face was gaunt, smeared with the black soot of gunpowder from the HK416 and the dried, foul-smelling ichor of the Dretches. His hands, though steady now, still felt the phantom vibration of the industrial drill he had wielded as a weapon of construction turned destruction.
