The quiet that settled over the Hollow Core was vast, peaceful, and warm.
Six thousand miles beneath the cheering cities and open blast gates, the massive pulse of the Crystal Genesis Throne had smoothed into an easy, rhythmic breathing. The blinding golden glare had softened to a gentle amber twilight. It reflected off the mile-wide crystal-clear geodes that lined the vaulted ceiling of the world.
In a sheltered nook fifty paces from the central dais. There, a natural shelf of white quartz formed a broad terrace, Arthur Vance set down his battered light metal field kettle.
His fingers were stiff from hours of razor-sharp care and throttle-cranking. But he struck a magnesium fire-starter. Then, the spark caught easily on a bundle of dried, stone-hard cycad shavings he had collected from an ancient fossil bed. Within moments, a modest, crackling campfire flared to life. The sweet, pine-scented scent of burning cedar-amber mingled with the clean mountain fragrance of the newborn aether. It drove away the last vestiges of heavy-duty ozone.
Titus settled himself directly behind the fire pit, serving as a huge, unmoving windbreak. The terrapin had pulled his heavy legs halfway beneath his dark rock shell, the linked fiery plates streaming a steady, comforting warmth like a wood-fired baked-clay stove. In front of his snout lay a small mound of stone-rich crystal-clear lichen and tightly packed dried kelp bricks. Titus lowered his heavy jaw, pulverizing a kelp biscuit with a slow, rhythmic crunch... Crunch... Crunch that shook pleasantly through the…
