The Aethelgard settled into the eye of the Star-Forged Crucible Basin with a gentle slowdown burn that barely stirred the instruments on Arthur’s razor-sharp tray. Outside the lab’s heavy quartz viewports, the violent, chaotic rough churning of the lower corona was locked away behind towering magnetic arches. Thousands of miles above the ship, looping bands of golden star-fire curved gracefully to form a semi-clear dome of radiant amber light, creating a safe hall of pure, uniform sun-hot energy.
Inside the medical bay, everyone could feel the dry, electric scent of ozone and burning feathers.
Pip lay upon the white baked-clay check tiles. His wings spread was wide in a stance of complete tiredness. Every breath he drew caused his small chest to heave with a painful, rasping whistle, venting tiny golden sparks from his nostrils. The tips of his main flight feathers were blackened and brittle. It curled like scorched parchment under the huge internal heat building within his blood-vessel core.
Arthur adjusted his aligned razor-sharp magnifying glass. He pulled on a pair of lead-lined check gloves coated in potion-made stone grease. Beside the running table, Grimm sat with his massive, jet-black bone chest pressed firmly against the steel support frame, his lone ear swiveling to track every breath Pip took. The hound’s [Gravitational Event Horizon] came a low, nonstop hum, establishing a zone of total physical and magnetic balance around the table.
