The heavy iron bolt of the ninth-floor penthouse clicked into place with a dull, heavy thud.
Kaelen Vance kicked off his wooden clogs at the door. He did not even bother to untie his embroidered silk sash.
He walked across the polished slate floor and collapsed straight into his canvas hammock.
The rope netting dipped under his weight, swinging in a slow, tranquil rhythm beneath the tall rosewood cupola.
“Nobody knocks on this door for five days,” Kaelen announced to the empty rafters, pulling his thick wool quilt up to his chin. “Not for fire, not for bandits, and especially not for paperwork.”
Barnaby Holt stood near the door, holding a ring of copper keys.
“What if Governor Titus sends an urgent military courier, Young Master?” Barnaby asked cautiously.
“Tell the courier that Master Ash is meditating on the profound stillness of the void,” Kaelen replied from beneath his quilt. “If the courier insists, charge him fifty spirit stones for an emergency consultation fee. That will cure his urgency.”
