The lower vaults of the Obsidian Peak, which had once echoed with the hollow,
hopeless screams of the "wolfless" and the clanking of iron chains, had been
reborn as a cathedral of industry. The air was thick, heavy, and tasted of
pulverized stone and molten metal. It was a humid, pressurized atmosphere where
the scent of ozone from the Living Silver vats fought for dominance against the
sharp, honest aroma of coal smoke.
This was the Sanguine Mint.
I stood on the central catwalk, looking down at the rows of heavy iron presses.
Each machine was a hybrid of Eastern clockwork and Northern grit, their pistons
rising and falling with a rhythmic, tectonic thump-hiss that vibrated in the
soles of my boots. They weren't stamping gold or copper. They were pressing thin
discs of Obsidian-Silver Alloy—a substance we had discovered after the Sieve had
filtered the Bordeaux Tide.
The coins, which we had officially named Sanguine Marks, were beautiful and
