The noon sun climbed above the northern crags. It cast the long, motionless shadow of the grounded flagship across the negotiation table.
Five thousand royal sailors and three hundred armored sky-marines stood along the bulwarks of the twelve trapped warships. Not a single arrow was notched. Not a single giant crossbow was wound. They looked down upon the two mortals standing in the roadway with the dazed, hollow expressions of soldiers who had watched the laws of heaven fail before their eyes. Across the valley slope, hundreds of mortal farmers and village elders gathered on the stone terrace walls. They watched their former masters stand trapped like cattle in a pen.
Lin Tao sat behind the pear-wood table, smoothing a clean sheet of heavy hemp parchment.
Beside him, Scribe Wu was trembling so wildly that he had to brace both forearms against the table to grind ink upon the slate stone. The scribe’s official seal kit lay open, displaying sixteen fine, detailed bronze chops that represented the civil power of the royal court. The rich fragrance of crushed pine soot and bitter pine-resin rose from the ink slab as Wu worked his stone pestle with desperate, clockwork speed.
Across the table stood Marquis Zhao. The warlord’s golden dragon armor had been stripped of its commanding regalia. His hands rested flat upon the dark wood.
