Root of the Throne

Descended the central steel pillar to the floor. Five heavy black spokes branched outward like iron roots. Right in my path, a swivel caster turned sideways. I lowered my snout and rammed the dual wheel with full force. It pivoted on its axle with a sharp click, skidded an inch, and locked tight against the carpet mat. Immovable. I squeezed my bulk into the dark hollow between two metal struts, tucking my flanks beneath the towering cylinder. Cold steel pressed against my spine. Tail curled tight. The rolling summit above is anchored. Night post secured.