Vane did not look back at the wreckage of the gear platform. He did not look back at Magnus, the fallen Iron Warden who was currently staring at his ruined gauntlets in a state of catatonic shock. To Vane, the noble was no longer a person. He was a completed transaction.
Vane moved with a rolling, silent gait through the transition tunnels of the Upper Foundry. The air here was a pressurized haze that felt like a physical weight against the lungs. It was a realm of screaming metal and superheated steam where the rhythmic thud of the Spire's primary pistons echoed like the heartbeat of a dying titan.
'Capacity is the bottleneck,' Vane thought, his eyes scanning the steam for heat signatures. 'The Argent Horizon demands a constant flow to maintain the sleeve. If I do not finish my encounters quickly, I will run dry before I even see the summit.'
