A draft of icy mountain wind curled around the iron prow of the imperial flagship.
Five miles upriver from the Sky-Bridge, the dreadnought hovered over the boiling white rapids of the Red-Iron Gorge.
Jagged granite reefs and ancient anti-flight pylons choked the narrow canyon channel, preventing the armored warship from advancing closer.
The ship was a floating fortress of black iron, its hull ribbed with heavy timber and reinforced with dark steel plating.
Along its three tiered decks, dozens of masked Censorate guards stood in rigid silence beside massive ballistas.
In the center of the upper deck, a bronze astrological armillary sphere hummed with spiritual energy, tracking the flow of Pill-Poison across twelve duchies.
Every cultivator registered in the provincial census was tethered to that humming bronze sphere by the dark residue in their dantian.
Centuries ago, the dynasty had fought three devastating purges to stamp out independent alchemy.
