A plume of greasy black smoke billowed into the morning sky above the Nine-Cauldron Guild Tower.
The acrid stench of burnt sulfur and scorched ginger drifted across the city rooftops.
Kaelen Vance sat on the cedar veranda in a padded sheepskin vest, carefully peeling the paper-thin skin from a roasted sweet potato. The orange flesh was sweet, piping hot, and smelled of caramelized brown sugar.
Deacon Vane stood at the foot of the stairs, presenting a freshly polished wooden tally board.
“Three hundred Low-Grade Spirit Stones from the mine’s third-shift smelting run, Young Master,” Deacon Vane reported with a satisfied bow. “Our total reserve in the cellar vault sits at fifteen thousand three hundred stones.”
“Put two sacks aside for the winter sweet-potato cellar,” Kaelen said mildly, blowing on the roasted tuber. “The mornings are getting crisp.”
Before Deacon Vane could record the entry, the front courtyard gate swung open with a violent crash.
Barnaby Holt sprinted into the yard, his leather apron flapping against his shins. His face was purple with exertion, and his breath tore through his lungs in ragged wheezes.
