Sera Thorne drove the butt of her spear into the yard dirt, testing the hinges. The oak door swung shut with a dull thud.
Barnaby Holt wiped wood shavings from his apron. “Good enough for stray dogs. Won’t stop iron rams.”
Kaelen Vance leaned against the doorframe in fleece slippers, eating salted almonds. “Oak doors require carpentry. Carpentry requires sweat. I prefer defensive measures that walk on two legs and do their own laundry.”
Sera turned, resting her calloused palms on the shaft of Storm-Pike. Her gray eyes narrowed. “If you want me guarding the gate for twenty-four hours straight, my overtime rate triples after midnight.”
“Sleep is sacred,” Kaelen replied mildly. “Anyone who interrupts a good rest deserves thirty lashes with a wet noodle.”
He pointed down the cellar stairs, where rich herbal mist drifted up. In the cistern sat the residue of Kaelen’s bath, saturated with cooling yin essence.
“My jade channels took the spirit fire, but the marrow sediment is thick with cooling herbs,” Kaelen said. “If we dump it down the gutter, the street weeds will turn into spirit trees.”
Sera looked down the stone steps. Her breath caught as the rich aroma brushed her skin. Her iron bones hummed. She had been stuck at Iron Bone Mid for four months, her shoulders aching whenever rain approached.
