A wall of searing heat dropped from the clouds like a falling iron ceiling, melting the silk pennants along the plaza rim.
Above Moon Three, the sky burned with the terrifying light of sixty solar gun-barges. Ten thousand legionnaires of the Fire-Tax Corps beat their bronze shields in unison, sending shockwaves of crimson flame crashing down toward the marble peaks.
At the head of the formation, the Flame Envoy raised a colossal magma halberd.
“Cleanse the satellite,” the Envoy’s voice thundered, shaking the obsidian platform like an earthquake. “Leave nothing but cinders!”
Panic erupted across the stadium. Judges, spectators, and merchant elders knocked over stone benches in a frantic stampede toward the cliffside tunnels.
Grand Chief Alchemist Voran laughed with bloody, hysterical glee, pointing his charred sleeve at Kaelen Vance.
“You will burn, boy,” Voran screeched over the roar of falling fire. “Your flesh will feed the furnace of Sovereign Vael!”
Kaelen Vance did not run. He slid his feet into his black cloth shoes, tied the laces with practiced ease, and checked his internal clock.
