Through cracked limestone under-road drains, the rain poured in steady, rhythmic sheets.
Cold water gurgled through the ancient drainage gutters of the Old Mint. It pooled around the mossy foundations of the abandoned smelting forge.
Inside the cellar, the heat dropped rapidly, chilled by the mountain storm raging across Gu Ning Upper Citadel.
Lu Chen remained motionless.
He sat upon the low stone hearth, his breathing deep, steady, and silent.
From the leather sheath bound inside his left sleeve, he drew the four-inch unpolished iron bone awl.
The cold iron shaft was plain, rough to the touch, and dark as dried blood.
Lu Chen laid his left hand flat on his knee, palm facing upward.
