The steam-storm in the Glacial Nave raged with the fury of a dying star trapped within a tomb of stone.
Above the vast expanse of the liquid silver pool, the boiling yellow sulfur and white-hot steam mingled into a swirling storm of blazing bright vapor. The surrounding heat in the upper dome hovered near six hundred degrees, while below, the twelve deep-water lengths of dense quicksilver held the heat locked away from the star-sapphire floor. Shattered fragments of Zhu Heling’s cut drill stems protruded from the boiling sludge like the broken ribs of a drowned iron beast, glowing dull red through the swirling smoke.
Standing upon the twelfth tier of the dais, Qiao Ming and Yan Zhiqiu stood shoulder to shoulder before the star-fallen iron tiller. Their clothes were stiff with frost from the lower decks and dusted with sulfur ash from above, but their hands on the joined scepter were as steady as the bedrock of the world.
“The final side,” Qiao Ming said quietly, his voice low and solemn in the vast chamber. “Ninety degrees clockwise to the end-post stop. The Cryogenic Deluge.”
“The lineage is ready,” Yan Zhiqiu answered, her fingers interlaced with his upon the cold metal. “The archives have recorded the battle. The ink is dry upon the slate. Turn the helm, river-pilot.”
