The Grand Hall smelled of woodsmoke, damp wool, and the clean, sharp scent of crushed winter thyme that Fen had scattered over the floorboards.
High in the chimney lintel, Noll Vey drew upon the deep bedrock reach of his Bastion rank. He did not speak a claim, and he drew no points from the ledger. Instead, he worked the living stone of the hall floor with the slow, patient craft of an honest mason.
Along the western wall, within five paces of the great fuel-less hearth that burned with quiet amber warmth under the ancient Right of Occupancy, the limestone flags responded to his will. The stone rose in smooth, low ridges, curving into eight rectangular bed-frames, each raised three inches above the draughts of the floor. The surfaces were flat, level, and warmed from beneath by the stone flue channels Noll had linked to the hearth.
Tessa Dene knelt beside the first frame, spreading a tick filled with dry meadow hay across the limestone. Beside her, Hal—the veteran miner whose thumbs were still bound in clean linen—held the corner of a heavy grey woolen blanket with his forearms, tucking the edge under the straw with clumsy, tender care.
“Give it an extra fold at the foot, Hal,” Tessa said softly. “Their toes will be cold for three days yet. Underground damp doesn’t leave the bones quickly.”
