The Sky Palace didn’t float on clouds. It sat upon a mountain of smoking brass and soot-choked stone.
High above the southern horizon, the gold-trimmed spires of the Celestial Emperor’s residence caught the pale morning sun. But down in the sprawling belly of the artisan quarter, daybreak was merely a dull amber smear through toxic vapor. Heavy wagons with iron-rimmed wheels rumbled over greasy granite cobbles. He hauled hundred-pound crates of red stone, sulfur, and hardened spirit beast bone. The air tasted of bitter coal dust, copper shavings. The sour chemical bite of boiling stone acid.
Lin Tao adjusted the collar of his rough wool smock. He stepped over an open gutter running thick with turquoise runoff.
Beside him, Tie Shan moved with measured, heavy strides, his massive frame hunched slightly under a coarse gray traveling cloak. The giant’s left arm was held close against his ribs. His broad shoulder was bound securely beneath layers of boiled leather and linen strapping. Each step brought a slight, rhythmic clench to his jaw. The lingering aftermath of their underground battles, where micro-fractures in his lateral ribs and deep marrow frost in his shoulder socket refused to knit under ordinary willow-bark compresses.
“Old bones ache,” Tie Shan rumbled under his breath. “The cold runs deep.”
