The final descent of the Broken Slate into the scepter’s socket took thirty heartbeats of painful, tiny care.
Qiao Ming’s calloused hands supported Yan Zhiqiu’s wrists, his thick thumbs acting as clockwork stops against the side of the star-fallen iron collar. He guided the descent tiny fraction of an inch by tiny fraction of an inch, his seasoned tactile sense feeling every fluctuation in the magnetic flux that boiled within the gap.
The thirty-two fracture facets of the shale tablet approached the thirty-two fracture facets of the iron shaft.
At a height of three tiny fractions of an inch, the opposing magnetic poles of the two stones produced a sudden, violent repulsion. The tablet bucked in their hands like a live fish trying to leap from a landing net. The white soft glow became so intense that the dark cobalt terrace vanished in an ocean of blinding radiance. It cast the kneeling diamond kings below into sharp, elongated silhouettes.
“Hold the line!” Qiao Ming roared through the sound din. “Do not let the torque twist the margin! Hold the center!”
Yan Zhiqiu did not blink. Her teeth were clenched, her knuckles white beneath her gloves, her entire old family will pouring down her forearms into the hardened stone. She planted her knees firmly upon the oiled leather pad, drawing upon every shred of discipline instilled by her lineage.
