A ribbon of pale cedar curled off the drawknife and drifted into the damp courtyard dirt.
Morning sun sliced through the willow branches, warming the damp stone pavers of Stone-Willow Lane. The sharp smell of fresh wood shavings mingled with the lingering scent of last night’s sulfur and river mud.
Kaelen Vance sat on an overturned pickle barrel, shaving the edges of a thick rectangular plank.
Beside him, Old Barnaby perched on a three-legged stool, cradling his hickory ladle like a sceptre. The old alchemist had not blinked in five minutes. His single bloodshot eye remained fixed on Kaelen’s right hand.
Barnaby reached out with the tip of his wooden ladle and tapped Kaelen’s knuckles.
TINK.
The sound had the clear, heavy ring of struck anvil iron. It echoed off the courtyard walls, vibrating with unmistakable metallic density.
“Spirit-iron,” Barnaby muttered, his grizzled jaw trembling. “Solid Iron Bone structure. You took a five-minute bath in hot water and bath salts, and your knuckles ring like temple brass.”
