The canvas hammock swung gently beneath the ninth-floor rosewood rafters, its iron carabiners humming in the wind.
Kaelen Vance lay with his hands folded across his stomach, his breathing slow and even.
The heavy door to the penthouse opened with a soft groan.
Chief Steward Barnaby Holt stepped into the room, followed closely by Linnea. Linnea carried a stack of heavy parchment scrolls bound with red cord.
“Young Master,” Barnaby called out softly, not wanting to startle him. “The prefecture clerks have arrived. Under Nine-Cauldron regulations, the new branch master must personally inventory the restricted scripture archive to certify the property transfer.”
Kaelen did not open his eyes.
“Orson held the tower for twenty years,” Kaelen murmured from beneath his quilt. “If there was anything valuable in that vault, he would have eaten it already. Tell the clerks I trust their honesty.”
“The guild charter requires your physical presence, Master Vance,” Linnea pleaded, adjusting her spectacles. “There are eighty-four rare pill scrolls in the restricted collection. If you do not sign the registry, the regional Censorate will freeze the market accounts.”
