The Taxed Bells of the Brass Quarter

The chamber sits beneath a city street like a buried counting house, all black brick, brass trim, and old smoke trapped in the mortar. Three censers sway from chains over a floor marked with a street grid, while a waist-high console of infernal brass glows faintly from within. Faint heat breathes up through the stones, the bells give off a low tinny hum when touched, and every wrong turn makes the runes flare red, as if the room is keeping score.