The dark platinum crown hit the floor with an actual bang. The crack of metal against stone echoed louder than the collective intake of breath from three thousand people in the room.
Sigils embedded in the soaring arches blazed with a blinding, toxic violet light. The high altar, that had survived five centuries of successions, spider-webbed from the center outward.
In the outer galleries, the structural lead began to groan. A section of the vaulted ceiling, gave way. Tons of stones plummeted into the lower tiers of the northern pews.
Cassian stood at the center of the storm, his eyes wide. He had prepared for the political trap. He had prepared for manipulation. But the sheer violence of the feedback loop, was something he hadn't accounted for. He felt his own core straining against the ribs of his cage, the pressure building toward a terminal discharge.
