Cold autumn rain spattered against the oiled-silk lantern swinging from Linnea’s hand as she crossed the empty guild plaza.
The wet basalt flags glistened under the dim glow of the streetlamps, smelling of sodden soot and river mud.
In the center of the grand terrace, four stone masons were bolting two massive cauldrons onto the dueling dais.
Linnea pulled her wet hood forward, stepping behind a wide granite pillar to watch.
The cauldron on the left, designated for Branch Master Orson, was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship. Cast from heavy purple bronze, its triple-layered fire vents were lined with polished fire-jade to ensure flawless heat retention.
The contender cauldron on the right, designated for Kaelen Vance, looked identical from twenty paces away.
Yet as Linnea slipped onto the raised platform after the workmen departed, her trained fingers traced the secondary draft seam along the vessel’s rear curve.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
