The Lower Atrium of the High Zenith was not built for men. It was built for light.
Columns of jet-black glass soared sixty feet into a domed vault built from ground quartz prisms. The afternoon sun was captured by thousands of faceted surfaces and broken into cascading sheets of amber, violet, and blinding silver. The floor was an ocean of white marble inlaid with nested brass orreries that turned with the slow driving force of deep water.
Every ten seconds, an underground balance weight dropped in the foundations. It sent a ringing thud through the soles of Ren’s boots.
“Don’t touch the brass tracery,” Chancellor Orin said without turning. His cloth-of-gold robes whispered against the marble as he led the way. Eight brass iron-puppets marched in flank formation, limbs moving in uncanny silence. “The floorplates are connected to main sky drain tubes. An unaligned man stepping upon an active nodal line will find his nervous system flash-hardened into coarse quartz dust.”
Behind Ren, Vane Vale muttered a low curse.
“Flash-hardened,” Vane whispered, his silk cravat pulled tight against the chill. His kidskin gloves gripped his ivory cane until the leather creaked. “A charming euphemism for electrocution. Ren, look at the margin joints on these floor blocks. Lead poured into gold-silver metal channels. The capital waste for this single foyer could have retired Low-Khorat’s town debt three times over. These zealots run a sovereign extortion cartel with brass gears.”
