Barnaby Holt lunged toward the marble dais with a roar that tore through his throat.
His boots struck the wet flagstones, his empty left sleeve whipping in the cold wind. The iron fire-poker in his right hand trembled, aimed straight at the elevated gallery. His bloodshot eyes locked on the jade slip above the fire pit.
“Orson!” Barnaby shouted, veins standing out on his neck. “Give it back! That belongs to my clan!”
Two elite guild enforcers in bronze armor blocked the stairs. Their halberds crossed with a sharp clatter, dull yellow auras flaring around the blades. They leveled the spikes at the old steward’s throat.
Before Barnaby could throw himself onto the steel, a blur of dark linen cut across the terrace.
The ash shaft of Storm-Pike slid between Barnaby and the halberds, its star-iron tip pinning both blades downward. Sera Thorne caught Barnaby’s shoulder with her left hand, her grip digging in like an iron vise.
With a fluid pivot of her hips, Sera hauled the old man backward three yards.
“Stand down, Barnaby,” Sera commanded in a clipped tone. “Two Jade Meridian guards on the steps. Four crossbowmen in the gallery. You die before your foot touches the fourth riser.”
