In the center of the city of Tyrosh, a gigantic, brilliantly colored palace stood.
The entire palace looked like a massive reef fortress rising from the deep sea, built from countless huge and sturdy grayish-white marble blocks.
These giant stones were finely polished, reflecting a bright and dazzling luster.
The Tyroshi were utterly obsessed with color.
At the corners, lintels, and bases of the palace, master craftsmen had inlaid shimmering mother-of-pearl, deep Lapis Lazuli, and multicolored stained glass, resembling treasures left behind by the crashing of solidified waves.
It was not merely the Archon's bedchamber and the throne of power, but also the crystallization of the oceanic soul of Tyrosh.
At this moment, inside the magnificent main hall, the ruler of Tyrosh was deeply embroiled in the storm of the Stepstones.
The Archon was well past fifty, short and stout, his bloated body almost swallowing the giant chair beneath him that could well be called a throne.
The chair had a frame of dark hardwood, entirely wrapped in priceless silk and velvet, soft as a cloud.
Yet this luxury was not for him alone.
Several young and alluring mistresses nestled against his sides like lazy cats, their pearl-like nails trailing across his lavish robes, their warm breaths carrying a sweet fragrance that teased his temples and ears.
Yet the Archon's mind was clearly not on these sensual pleasures.
His astonishingly thick beard and hair, dyed a dazzling, vibrant blue, trembled slightly along with his furrowed brow.
His gaze, like ice-quenched sapphires, swept over the officials arguing bitterly below him.
These retainers, clad in gorgeous brocade robes, argued with red faces beneath the soaring dome and the mother-of-pearl and stained-glass-inlaid pillars over whether Tyrosh should intervene in the whirlpool of the Stepstones right now.
The sound waves echoed across the pristine