In the dim lantern light of the underground passage, Seyun looked down at Joren’s hand on the iron drop-bar. Two months ago, when Joren had stood on the raised dais inside this very room pretending the fire spirit’s borrowed heat was his own Bronze mantle, his fingers had been soft, manicured, and trembling with hidden fever. Now the nails were clipped short, the knuckles scraped raw from hauling herb baskets and splitting firewood at the lower sheds. The wrist beneath the frayed cuff showed the steady, unrushed pulse of a fighter rebuilding his Coal channels from the first foundation breath.
“The air inside that pit hasn’t been vented since the day Tor Ves locked the door,” Seyun said quietly. He kept his voice low in the stone vault. “Your lung and heart-sac spirit veins still carry scar tissue from the winter check. If a pocket of tightly packed fire breath hits you at the threshold, it will try to hook straight into those old tracks. Let me go in first and clear the chimney pipe with my Bronze edge.”
Joren didn’t take his hand off the iron bar. He shook his head once, his jaw firm. “No, Seyun. I’m opening this door, and I’m walking down into the ash pit first.”
