The scorched bronze spirit rod clattered against the basalt tiles as Linnea fell backward into Barnaby’s arms.
Her fingers were blistered black from the furnace backfire.
“Get her into the chair,” Kaelen Vance said, his voice quiet against the deafening roar of the dying cauldron. “And give her a clean handkerchief. Soot on the eyelashes is impossible to wash out.”
Barnaby Holt scooped the trembling girl up, his face gray with horror. “Kaelen, the bronze belly has expanded three inches. It will burst any second.”
Up in the observation gallery, Deacon Sallow threw his head back and laughed, his yellow teeth bared in vicious delight.
“Look at the noble third son,” Sallow shouted from the carved marble rail. “An unranked boy thinks he can stabilize a Tier 3 backfire with his bare hands! When this hall turns to rubble, the Vance estate will pay for every broken tile.”
Behind Sallow, several apprentice scribes flinched, clutching their record brushes in despair.
“This is madness,” an apprentice whispered, his voice trembling with dread. “No one can touch an earth-fire vent when the pressure exceeds three atmospheres. His hands will melt to the bone.”
