Sunlight seeps like syrup though cracks in the stained-glass ceiling. The floor shudders in time with the churning machinery far beneath your feet. The air has a tang of chemicals, bonfires and rain. Pistons pump, cogs turn, and suit-swaddled figures tend to the enginery, bellowing over the shrieking metal.

The King expects tribute first. "Something appropriate. Seven savage secrets. A crimson promise, steeped in old starlight. A moment of inspiration, pried from the skull of a—"