Two skies meet at the indigo hour. The rails of the infinite staircase edged—one sky pale blue, the other crimson—swirling upwards to the margin. Walls vanish, and bathers flock to the yawning mouth of Ganges River.
Knowing the eclipse is near, Scorpio dashes across the marble terrace. Unnoticed, as mosaic pillars flash, he swipes the sacred reliquary.
Each ascending step brings him further from the city, closer to the gods—he hopes. Glancing back, down, one last time; a hundred spires line the horizon. Scorpio laughs in a fit of victory, twisting ahead again to face his new universe, and, to his surprise, its wrath. With a single brush of the sun, his vapor paints the air in a howl.