The ice coffin before him hung suspended in mid-air, bound by ancient Wyrm Clan magic from above. Chains stretched from the coffin, anchoring it to the walls of the Underpalace.
Aaron Sinclair stood still, tilting his head back slightly to look at the suspended ice coffin. Even from here, he could feel the frigid air radiating from it.
He stepped into the air and ascended as if climbing a flight of invisible stairs until he plopped down right on top of the ice coffin. Had anyone with a lower Cultivation level sat there, they would have been frozen solid long ago by the coffin's frigid aura. Aaron, however, felt nothing unusual—just a pleasant, refreshing coolness.
Aaron shifted, planting one hand on the lid beneath him. He lowered his head slightly, gazing at the figure lying inside the ice coffin.
