The black meteor iron of the Origin-Iron Door groaned like a dying beast.
Behind the eighty-yard barrier, the heart of the Primal Source Furnace beat with violent, manic acceleration.
THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.
Every pulse sent concentric ripples of distorted red gravity washing across the floating dais, vibrating straight through the soles of Kaelen’s straw slippers.
Above the iron archway, an ancient alchemical gauge was carved directly into the bedrock: a vertical glass tube filled with boiling celestial mercury.
Claire Vance adjusted her spectacles, her face pale as she pointed her brass calipers at the glowing column.
“The condensation gauge is climbing,” Claire reported, her voice tight with scholastic dread. “Seventy percent... seventy-two percent. Solon has bypassed the secondary safety conduits entirely. He is pouring the raw, unfiltered planetary fire directly into the pill matrix.”
“How fast is it moving?” Sera Thorne asked, leaning on Storm-Pike.
