The Grand Hall of the Solar Zenith didn’t tolerate shadows.
Perched atop the dark rock acropolis of Solaris, the royal capital of the Golden Sun Empire, the hall had been engineered by thirty ages of solar geomancers to trap the dawn. Nine hundred polished amber mirrors lined the vaulted ceiling, catching the first pale rays of morning sunlight and focusing them downward into a searing, golden soft glow that bathed the throne in unending bright glare. To mortal courtiers and kneeling country governors, the seated figure upon the Nine-Dragon Dais didn’t merely rule an empire. He radiated the blinding power of the sky sun itself.
Emperor Zhao Tai sat motionless beneath forty pounds of woven gold-silk ritual robes, his wrinkled hands resting upon the carved armrests of the Golden Dragon Throne. For seventy-four years, his word had moved grain fleets across ten thousand li of canal networks, mobilized million-man conscript armies against border tribes. Then he dictated the price of salt from the western deserts to the eastern shores. Even at ninety-two summers, his eyes kept the keen, unblinking glare of an aged golden eagle.
Below the dais, seventy-two civil ministers and ironclad marshals stood in double ranks, their jade identity tablets clutched before their chests. Minister of Revenue Liu was reciting the winter grain ledger.
