Up on the sunlit canyon rim, the iron hoist gate groaned open and let a gust of cool mountain wind wash over Kaelen’s face.
The red dust swirled across the timber landing, coating the boots of the mine guards as they filed out of the cage.
Kaelen stepped onto the solid stone terrace, tucking his folded camp-chair under his arm. He took a deep, deliberate breath of the fresh mountain air, letting it rinse the stench of sulfur from his lungs.
Beside him, Barnaby Holt released his tight grip on his linen tunic. The amber throb behind his chest scar slowly subsided as the distance from the deep bedrock increased.
“Back to the barracks,” Kaelen murmured, keeping his pace slow and steady. “If I walk any faster, my knees will demand a medical broth.”
They crossed the dusty slag terraces without looking back at Varga’s watchtowers.
By the time the afternoon shadows stretched across the western ledge, they were safely inside the weathered cedar barracks.
Mina immediately bolted the timber crossbeam that Barnaby had spliced back together with iron bands after Varga’s dawn visit. She set a heavy iron kettle of spring water on the hearth, tossing in dried chamomile blossoms and licorice root.
