In the center of the sealed basin of Karokai, the physical world had frozen into absolute stillness. Sagiri sat cross-legged on the flat slab of ancient bedrock, his dark traveling cloak lying beside him on the icy stone.
The toll on his mortal shell had reached a terrifying stage. The ink-black markings across his neck, shoulders, and chest were no longer moving; they had hardened into solid, glossy obsidian crystal.
The black stone shell had spread down his forearms, locking his fingers into a rigid, curved grip upon his knees. His skin was as cold as mountain ice, and his breathing had slowed until not a single puff of white vapor left his lips.
Deep inside his chest, his heart beat only once every two minutes, sending a faint, sluggish pulse of blood through mineralized veins. Faint spatial sparks crackled along his collarbones, dissolving the snowflakes that drifted down through the freezing air.
