Yomiko and Ejava step over the Imperial Threshold, their footsteps resounding against the white jade floor with a note of ominous portent. As the two enter into the secret heart of the Realm, followed by the remainder of the circle. The entrance hallway is short, only some few yards, and entirely anodyne–disappointing, compared to the legends of dire dangers within the secret manse, known to all in Realm and Threshold. And then you notice the needles. Needles of black jade delicately embedded in the tiles of the walls and ceilings, their orichalcum tip just barely piercing the jade tiles. Beneath every needle smolders a half-visible spume of light, or a dwindled violet flame, or a congeries of flesh-warping essence. Looking back, you see needles pinned into the roof as well, suppressing just as many inauspicious hints of magic. "At least she made it this far." mutters Roseblack, surveying her sister's wake. "Spell-Killing Needles. Don't touch them, you'll probably trigger the traps." she says–as if you need such instruction.

Coming to the end of the tunnel, you find a low jade door lying half-open. Gingerly stepping through it, you find yourselves on a balcony, overlooking a deep spacious foyer–and, more to the point, a deep spacious foyer filled with all manner of deathtraps! Foot-long spikes rise up from the floor, whirling blades swing out from hidden slots within the walls, ranging essence cannons scan the room, swarms of copper bees disperse like a cloud of copper bees! And yet, perhaps even more impressive than the perfunctory outer defenses are Mnemon's methods of disarming them. The sorceress is one renowned for her mastery of demonology, and she has not disappointed. Every spike rising up from the ground is carpeted by the massive body of a blood ape, self-impaled so as to provide a foot-bridge over the sharp-tipped needles. The swinging blades are weighed down by anuhles, dozens of demon-spiders clinging to each razor-edged pendumlum and trapping it within its wall-niche. The essence cannons are surrounded by the charred bodies of luminata, still-wriggling flesh wrapping around their barrels, preventing the deadly blasts from piercing through. Even the deadly deadly brazen bees have been disarmed, caught within the horrific gelationous bodies of the zeteny.

And in the midst of it all stands a high statue of orichalcum, a monument to Ignis Divine, the Unconquered Sun. He holds up high the spear and shield, the laurel and horn, as if in blessing. At the statue's feet simmers a tall Dragon-Blood sorceress of middle-age, arrayed in incarnadine robes and crowned with a tiara of white jade. Mnemon. Her hands are raised high in crooked mudras not unfamiliar to Ivory Eyes, cast through every station of sorcery in quick succession–to no avail. To her side stands a young mortal, smoke fuming and rising from the silver censer he swings. He makes a pathetic face, ill-suited to the travails of the Imperial Manse. Mnemon does not turn as you enter the room, not hearing your arrival, or else too caught up in her sorcery to be distracted.