Wood splinters rained across the dirt floor as the barracks door groaned under another brutal strike.
Kaelen Vance did not jump. He slowly rolled onto his side, pulling his coarse wool blanket over his head to block out the morning chill.
“Five breaths before my men kick the frame off its hinges, Vance!” Blood-Captain Varga’s voice boomed through the cracked planks like gravel grinding in a mill. “The lower smelting cavern is choking on red steam, and you’re going down that shaft right now!”
Beside the hearth, Sera Thorne already had her storm-pike in hand. Her knuckles were steady, the steel spearhead hovering two inches from the cracked doorframe.
Old Barnaby sat by the cold stove, quietly stirring a bowl of pickled mustard greens with his iron ladle. He did not even look up when the crossbeam splintered.
“Ten more minutes,” Kaelen muttered into his pillow. “Tell him the Guild contract strictly forbids inspections before the third bell. It upsets my morning digestion.”
A man breaks through to Iron Bone Mid at midnight, and by sunrise the local thugs are already hammering on his front door, Kaelen thought with a dry scowl. No wonder ancient hermits hid in caves. Civilized society has terrible manners.
