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Cosima keeps her short sword low and studies the foundry before committing herself—especially the floor, vats, drains, and any fresh greasy residue. “No one touches a valve, a pool, or a shiny thing until we know what it costs,” she says. She listens for movement and watches for wires, pressure plates, or other obvious traps as she looks for the source of the grease.

Cosima’s practiced survey finds no obvious wire, plate, valve, drain, or active mechanism. The vat holds cold, solid iron; nothing is leaking from it. The only fresh-looking residue is a narrow trail of black grease crossing the foundry toward the open southern threshold, as though carried or dragged in from beyond rather than produced here. Holding still, she hears no movement within the foundry.

Durwin shifts the yoke high on his shoulders and keeps his battle axe ready. “Trail came in from south. We follow it—but round the edge, not through it. Floor’s not honest.” He takes the rearward side of the group and watches each patch of footing before putting his weight down, keeping an eye behind them as they carefully inspect and approach the open southern threshold.

Durwin finds a dry route beside the narrow grease trail and reaches the southern threshold without slipping or springing anything. The black smear continues through the opening to the south. Nothing moves behind him; the others remain in the foundry until they choose to cross.

Isolde adjusts her smoked spectacles and follows Durwin along the same dry margin, careful not to disturb the black trail. At the southern threshold she keeps behind his axe and studies the smear where it passes through: thickness, drag marks, and any sign that it was carried by boot, claw, or something broader. “Fresh enough to matter,” she murmurs. “Let us see what direction it truly tells us before we stand in it.”

The trail bears no boot, claw, or wheel marks. It consists of overlapping, low, broad smears, as if soft-bodied creatures dragged grease beneath themselves. The residue is thickest south of the threshold and thins into the foundry: whatever laid it repeatedly came from the south.

Cosima follows the dry margin to the southern threshold, short sword ready but held clear of the smear. She crouches beside it rather than stepping through, studies the floor and the space beyond for a safe route, and whispers, “Then the sellers are south. We look first; no one gives them a boot to grab.”

Dry stone borders the grease on both sides beyond the threshold; Cosima sees no wire, plate, or place where the floor breaks. The route remains passable, but four squat, grease-slick creatures carrying spears hold the chamber farther south. None is close enough to seize a boot from the doorway.

Durwin plants himself on the dry stone at the southern threshold, shield forward and battle axe raised. “Four with spears. Keep off the black stuff.” He holds the narrow approach rather than charging through the grease, ready to meet the first creature that closes.

Durwin holds the dry threshold. The four creatures notice his shield and raised axe; their spears angle toward the doorway, but none advances across the chamber.

Isolde stays on the dry stone behind Durwin’s shield, raises one hand toward the four spear-carriers, and speaks the soft, measured syllables of her prepared sleep charm. She lays the spell over the creatures in the southern chamber, keeping its reach clear of Cosima and Durwin. “No blood, if they will permit it.”

Isolde’s spell takes hold of 10 Hit Dice. All four spear-carriers sag to the floor, their weapons clattering onto the stone; they will sleep for 9 turns unless disturbed. Isolde’s memorised Sleep is expended. The threshold falls quiet without bloodshed.