Sulfur-tinged steam hissed from the eastern fault line, rising in thick white plumes against the sinking cavern roof.
The hydraulic pressure of four million tons of red crystalline salt was doing something extraordinary to the mountain’s roots.
By forcing the upper plateau downward, the Tier 6 Blood-Sealing Talisman acted like a colossal blacksmith’s bellows. It squeezed the deep subterranean magma chambers, pinching the eastern basalt fissure shut.
Trapped lava surged upward against the narrow stone fault.
Over the next twelve hours, the pressure overcame parts of Mina’s ice cover; she moved the remaining roots to the cooler terraces while the mature orchids stayed near the heated fissure. Within two hours of the breach, the black basalt flagstones along the eastern terrace turned cherry-red, then a blinding, incandescent white.
“The ground is scorching our soles!” Commander Wu shouted, pulling his boots back from the edge of the terrace.
The defecting cavalrymen stumbled backward, shielding their faces with dented bucklers. The air near the fault grew so dry that their leather tunics began to curl and smoke.
Deacon Vane scurried along the shoreline with wet burlap sacks. He barked orders at the panicked miners, having them douse the baggage carts with buckets of lake water before the wheel grease caught fire.
