The ancient granite Censorate pedestal stood six feet tall outside the Vermilion Imperial Vault, weathered by centuries of imperial history.
Carved into its face were eleven rectangular slots, each recessed an inch into the dark stone.
Faint inspection runes traced the borders of each slot, glowing with pale emerald luminescence as Kaelen stood blindfolded in his bathrobe five paces back.
Linnea and Deacon Vane walked up to the pedestal together, carrying the cedar box of eleven romance booklets and Claire Vance’s leather recipe book cover.
Beside her, Elder Sterling stood at attention, his fingers resting lightly against the wrapped hilt of his ancient longsword.
Patriarch Shen and Patriarch Mu watched from five paces back, their eyes wide with intense curiosity.
“Every slot has an ancient couplet carved into the bronze rim,” Shen whispered, pointing a finger. “Look at the third slot: across misty rivers, the horse thief flies. The Seventh Disciple truly turned pulp fiction into imperial engineering.”
“The slots are calibrated to the exact weight, page thickness, and woodblock ink of the mortal printings,” Linnea reported, looking back at Kaelen. “If any text is counterfeit, the internal self-destruct array will ignite.”
