The Nocturnal Bastion

My gauntlet met the cold flank of an orphaned steel draughting compass lying unhinged along the wainscot. Beside its parted legs rested an antique brass signet stamp, inverted upon the dark cedar grain. I did not move them with haste. Kneeling in the midnight hush, I slid the pointed steel caliper straight through the hollow scrollwork of the brass handle. With steady, calculating leverage, I pressed down until the joint bit firm against the wood. The assembly rose perpendicular, an austere spire casting a long shadow against the molding. Resting my armored hand upon its peak, I claimed the quiet hour.