A muffled scuffle in the bamboo grove behind the washhouse broke the silence of the last watch before dawn.
Sera Thorne stepped onto the rear veranda, her ash spear held horizontally across her waist. With her left hand, she shoved a trembling, disheveled figure forward onto the wooden floorboards.
Garrick Vance tumbled onto his knees, his silk slippers caked with black ditch mud and his abacus rattling against his belt. His face was ashen, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clutched an oilcloth bundle against his ribs like a shield, shivering uncontrollably in the cool night draft.
“Found him skulking through the drainage culvert behind the garden wall,” Sera reported. She tapped the butt of her spear against the cedar floor. “No weapons on him, and no shadows trailing his path. Just smelling like sewer moss and pure terror.”
Kaelen Vance sat in a wide wicker armchair beside the low table, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. A small charcoal brazier cast a faint crimson glow across the porch floor, keeping the damp predawn chill at bay. Resting on his lap was Book 4 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
Kaelen turned a page without looking up from the text.
