The sharp scratching of steel nib on coarse paper echoed through the sanctum like a crack of thunder.
High above the lake of soul-fire, Sovereign Solon’s face turned from purple to blinding, incandescent white.
“Asset liquidation?” Solon repeated, his voice dropping into a register so deep that the molten gold below began to churn into violent whirlpools. “Back-taxes? You dare threaten the Architect of the Cosmos with an accounting audit?”
His divine sense locked onto the brass-bound ledger in Sera’s hands.
He read the fresh ink with sheer, uncomprehending outrage: Unpaid overtime spanning five millennia. Stolen wages across thirty-three thousand distinct mortal planes. Operating an unpermitted smelting hearth without local clearance.
Deacon Vane stood tall beside the picnic table, holding the golden seal of the Celestial Tax Bureau aloft.
“Under Imperial Fiscal Code Section 44, Subsection B,” Vane announced in a steady, officious tone, “any smelting facility exceeding three hundred yards in diameter requires municipal registration and annual emissions audits. Failure to report carries mandatory property confiscation.”
“Insolent insects!” Solon’s nine celestial halos flared, merging into a single, blinding corona of pure cosmic lightning.
