Brass trumpets blared down Alchemy Avenue, shaking the morning mist from the weeping willows.
Twenty heralds in vermilion silk marched in lockstep over the cobblestones, beating broad bronze drums.
Behind them, on the tenth day of the Nine-Cauldron Guild festival, walked the sixty finalists of Round Three, flanked by cheering crowds four rows deep along the avenue.
Twelve-year-old Mina Vance held Kaelen firmly by his left sleeve, steering his boots around wet cabbage leaves, puddles, and fresh horse manure.
Twenty-four quiet hours had passed since Sera Thorne’s predawn breakthrough and the capture of Varga’s two drowned scouts. Half a pace to Kaelen’s right, Sera strode with her hand resting on the linen-wrapped shaft of her spear, her cold Iron Bone Early aura parting aggressive peddlers before they could bump his elbow.
Over Kaelen’s eyes rested a pair of thick iron spectacles.
The lenses had been blackened with chimney soot until they were completely opaque.
He could not see his own knuckles, let alone the street.
