Sulfur-tinged ocean spray drenched the star-iron prow as the flagship glided into the shadow of Crater Island’s outer cliffs.
The black volcanic caldera rose eight hundred feet out of the waves like a jagged crown of obsidian. Thick yellow steam billowed from the jagged rim, carrying the sharp tang of mineral salts, sulfur, and boiling brine.
Inside the sheltered lagoon, hundreds of Sanctuary warships rode the gentle swells in defensive formation. Their crimson and violet sails were reefed tight, and their brass deck railings glittered under the pale midday sun.
Beyond the inner harbor, an enormous natural amphitheater had been chiseled directly into the crater’s basalt walls. Tier upon tier of stone spectator galleries seated tens of thousands of cultivators from every corner of the Archipelago.
Dozens of colorful sect banners snapped in the thermal updrafts. Merchants peddled candied hawthorn berries and spirit tea along the stone walkways, shouting odds for the upcoming grand conclave.
High above the northern edge of the caldera, fifty iron cages hung suspended from individual chains.
Inside the cages huddled the fifty captive mainland alchemists, their white robes stained with soot and their collarbones pierced by Censorate suppression needles. Directly below them, a lake of molten magma bubbled and hissed, throwing violent crimson reflections onto the iron bars.
