Dawn broke over Red Mist Valley not with sunlight, but with a pale, bone-chilling frost that silvered the wet dark rock cliffs.
The pouring downpour had finally ceased. That left the underground ravine choked with thick, stale white fog that muffled all sound. Water dripped from the stone roof edges in slow, measured beats.
Wu Xiao woke at the fifth watch.
The twelve-year-old boy threw off his wool blanket, jumped to his feet, and right away grabbed his willow broom to sweep the hearth flat stone slabs. It was the clockwork habit of three years of survival. If an apprentice was not on his feet with a broom in his hand before the master spoke, an iron cane found his ribs.
The boy swept four strokes, then froze.
The workshop was fully silent.
There was no sound of Gui’s dry, clicking breath from the nook. The bamboo reclining chair was empty, its coarse wool blankets folded neatly into two squares upon the frame. The floor where Gui’s pallet had stood was clean, swept of coal dust, the dark rock slabs fused together with fresh, white lime mortar.
Pei Jing stood at the center workbench, slicing strips of dried gazelle meat with his bronze skinning knife.
