Sunset turned the red clay tiles of the courtyard wall into bands of burning copper.
By the time the five patriarchs departed with blistered palms and empty water buckets, the yard was cleaner than the magistrate’s private garden. Chief Deacon Mo’s lurking Guild scouts had taken one look at the departing elders and scurried back down the alley in silent dread.
Every stray dandelion had been extracted from the turnip bed, and the south wall gleamed with fresh lye wash.
Kaelen remained stretched out on his wicker lounger, his hands laced behind his head.
He listened to the steady, rhythmic chirping of evening crickets rising from the damp soil beneath the vegetable patch.
In the kitchen shed, Barnaby Holt was snoring loudly against an empty flour barrel.
The one-armed alchemist had spent eight hours hissing whispered gardening corrections at the wealthiest clan leaders in the district, and the sheer emotional exertion had knocked him flat.
Mina sat on the porch step with an iron needle and a spool of grey thread.
