The steam cleared slowly, leaving the vast hall coated in a thick, white crust of dried salt, scorched sulfur, and crushed gold-silver metal. Deep-Diver Ren lay pinned beneath the shattered trunk of a dark rock column, his brass diving suit mangled and twisted, the heavy lead boots torn from his feet. Black oil and sea-salt water leaked from his suit’s broken seals, pooling around his head. Yet, beneath the dented brass collar, his mortal chest rose. Then he fell in shallow, determined gasps. ‘The... The depth was good...’ the diver rasped, his voice bubbling through broken teeth. ‘We made the old bastard... Bleed silver...’
Ten paces away, Nomad Ren lay on his back, his bare chest covered in third-degree steam burns. His fingers weakly grabbed the two halves of his shattered gourd resonator. He looked up at the unlit ceiling vaults with clear, unblinking grey eyes that had spent decades watching desert stars. ‘The well is dry, Ren,’ the nomad whispered softly, looking toward Ren Prime on the dais. ‘Drink... Drink the salt water, kid. Don’t let the salt... Choke you.’ Apostate Ren dragged his broken frame across the salt crust, his legs numbed from the fall, his shattered star compass clutched against his ribs like a dead child. The astrologer looked at the headsman with pure, unbending hatred. ‘The stars... Will still burn... When your mirror is dust, grandfather,’ Apostate spat, coughing dark blood onto the salt.
