Standing in the shadow of the Obsidian Throne, the concept of mortal time ceased to possess meaning.
The throne climbed eight hundred arm-lengths into the diamond-studded vault of Entry hall 875, a huge mountain of condensed star-black glass that swallowed the meager light of the lanterns and returned only the ancient, violet memory of pre-flood space. The shadow cast by the seated titan formed a cool, protective twilight fifty arm-lengths wide, sheltering the green jade dais from the burning flares of the outer heavens. Here, between the soles of the Sovereign and the edge of the quicksilver lake, the air smelled of deep mountain water tanks, crushed sage, and ancient copper filings that had never known the warmth of solar noon.
Qiao Ming stood beside the huge left foot, his bare soles planted firmly upon the pale green jade pavers. The stone was cool beneath his calloused skin, carrying a faint spark prickle that rose through his heels, his calves, and into his spine. It was the same sensation he had felt thirty years ago when he first stepped into the drowned cloisters of the outer safe hall, but multiplied ten thousand times in purity and thickness. Every notch on his toes, every scar earned from slip-falls on wet weir sills, seemed to find a corresponding groove in the tiny grain of the jade stone floor.
