Three hundred iron-tipped halberds gleamed under the grey morning clouds of the canyon.
The reformed mine guards stood in four rigid companies across the red sandstone square. Their boiled leather armor was freshly oiled, and their heavy steel greaves dug firmly into the crushed gravel.
Gate-Commander Drogo stood at their head, his scarred jaw set in a hard line. Behind him, three hundred men kept their eyes locked forward, their breath rising like pale steam into the crisp mountain air.
Kaelen Vance stood on the elevated timber platform above the square, leaning lightly against the cedar rail.
He wore his loose grey travel robes and a wide-brimmed straw hat tilted back on his head. In his right hand, he held a cup of steaming barley tea. In his left rested a short, unrolled bamboo scroll.
Beside him, Sera Thorne held her iron spear upright, her expression cold and vigilant. Barnaby Holt leaned on his wooden ladle, his newly healed chest rising easily without the slightest cough of soot.
Mina stood on Kaelen’s other side, quietly munching on a dried persimmon while holding Book 3 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride under her arm.
Off to the far corner of the platform, Garrick Vance knelt beside his iron tally-chest, clutching his wooden abacus like a drowning man clutching a plank.
