A thin copper tripwire snapped with a faint, metallic hiss in the wet dark.
In the courtyard of Stone-Willow Lane, the autumn rain fell in steady, cold sheets against the cabbage leaves.
Kaelen Vance sat on the edge of the covered porch, a steaming mug of ginger water cradled in his hands.
Beside him, Sera Thorne sat on an upturned wooden crate, sharpening the leaf-shaped point of her iron spear with an oiled whetstone.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“Night shifts should carry a forty percent surcharge,” Sera said in her dry, clipped voice, without looking up from the steel. “If someone attacks after midnight, they owe me two silver coins just for waking up.”
“Put it on the ledger,” Kaelen said, taking a warm sip. “Derrick Vance has never paid a debt on time in his life, but his creditors usually have deep pockets.”
Barnaby Holt stood near the rain barrel, inspecting the brass winch-cranks on the two mounted wall repeaters.
