The sixteen warships slipped through the narrow canyon entrance like dark iron leviathans descending into the underworld.
For two vertical miles, the sheer basalt walls pressed inward. The high-pressure brine grew denser with every fathom, but the intense geothermal heat neutralized the corrosive chill of the abyssal currents.
On the flagship’s bridge, Elder Sterling gripped the iron wheel, watching the depth gauges spin with steady, rhythmic clicks.
“One thousand fathoms,” Sterling called out, his voice calm and measured. “Hull pressure holding at ninety-two percent. Linnea’s hull paste is sealing the outer seams perfectly.”
Behind him, Sera Thorne surveyed the dark rock faces sliding past their quartz viewports.
Veins of glowing red magma ran through the black basalt like the glowing circulatory system of a subterranean god. Schools of blind, armored thermal fish darted between the hull plates, untroubled by the boiling temperatures.
At the very bottom of the chasm, the canyon opened into a colossal subterranean cavern.
The cavern was four miles wide, arched like the nave of a sunken cathedral.
