Misery nods to show sympathy. There was one slab of holy jade in all of Rootsdown and it formed the center of the churchhall’s facade. The rest of the building had been mundane-built, soil and clay shaped by human hands. Or rather, shaped by machines made by machines made by human hands. By human minds.

The capsule stops on the Imperial side in a station all shades of green, where towering columns of holy jade close high above their heads. Floating gardens drift lazily between them, lifted by holy tigereye and bubble-wrapped in holy obsidian. The pathways are lined with statues of Emperors and Empresses and Emprexes past. A flock of white saints and human soldiers waits for them as they disembark into the subtly perfumed air. “Come to take us to the Emperor, have you?” asks the Duke.

Their new chaperones do not answer. Instead they crowd in and shift them with the force of veiled threat alone, separating the Duke and Misery from their entourage. They are surrounded. The muzzles of the soldiers’ guns are patient, waiting for an excuse to be useful. Lord Argan chuckles softly. “So that’s how it’s going to be, eh?”

The Duke is definitely nervous. It does not bode well. By old habit Misery’s hand aches for the weight of her mother’s amulet, but there’s a shell of singing armor between them. The stone disc rests on her sternum instead, hot and restless with strange energy. She might be confusing it with her heart.

The Throne’s guards herd them onto an arrowhead barge that rises noiselessly into a buttery glide past holy jade and airborne trees. As the Imperial quarter swans by Misery moves as close to the ornate railing as she can, still curious, still hungry. Around her is an emerald city, its streets embellished with gold and its denizens wrapped in thick layers of luxury fabric. She finds herself surprised by the lack of holy imagery. Not what she expects of the absolute center of the Empire of the Faithful. Where are the statues of the Messiahs, the projected glass dioramas of the Awakening, the priests on every corner singing hymns of the Larex Forge’s Grace? Even the doorways appear devoid of prayer rings. Don’t they fear the nullvoid here? Aren’t they scared?

Ruin, leaning into the wind, grins and licks hir lips with the red tip of hir tongue. “Do you imagine those little trinkets can truly hold back the nullvoid from the mind of one who welcomes it?” As Misery turns away from hir, heart racing, zie continues, “Or does it upset you, perhaps, that you cling to superstition more than you’d like?”