Inside the high-pressure potion-made lab of the Aethelgard. The air was were suspended in a heavy, charged stillness. The surrounding hum of the ship’s sky scrubbers had dropped to a muffled whisper, overwhelmed by the deep, rhythmic thrumming of the potion-made centrifuge. On the central razor-sharp workbench, twenty drops of the refined Star-Forged Core Broth rested inside a lead-shielded quartz metal tube. It glowed with the blinding, blazing bright glare of a newly ignited stellar nucleus.
Arthur Vance stood over the running table, wearing his full razor-sharp scrubs heavy with lead-lined heat aprons and aligned check goggles. In his gloved hands, he held a heavy diamond-tipped micro-hollow tube, its air-powered plunger tuned to deliver micro-injections at tolerances measured in nanoliters. Beside the table, Grimm sat on his massive haunches, his broad, jet-black bone chest pressed firmly against Arthur’s left thigh, his Abyssal Fenrir aura streaming a dense, steadying gravity pull that kept the delicate potion-made glassware from shaking.
Perched upon the baked-clay running tray on all three golden talons, Pip was remarkably calm. The young Golden Crow stood tall, his three radiant crest plumes arched proudly over his golden crown, his newly formed golden wing-quills tucked smoothly against his flanks. His brilliant, sun-ringed eyes were fixed upon the glowing golden broth with the unblinking, respectful focus of an apex hunting beast about to claim his birthright. He didn’t fidget or chirp. With the total, rock-steady trust forged across seventeen calamitous rifts, Pip offered his warm, scale-armored chest directly to Arthur’s…
