Iron Ring

The wooden leg rose high. Too steep to walk. I found the low rung, hooked one claw over the timber, and hoisted my mass up. The broad plateau opened before me. Dust drifted in the slant of light. In the center lay a thick, coiled weight. Black iron. Cold metal smell. A ring of heavy keys. I stopped. Sized it up. I drove my lower jaw beneath the smallest hoop and levered upward. Clink. A sharp, stinging clatter against the polished pine. The weight resisted, sliding three inches, then dragging to a halt. Good. Sturdy anchor. I settled my chest beside the cold ring, overlooking the floor below.