Two hours after the comprehension window closed, a covered carriage drawn by two sturdy mountain mules clattered over the rutted stones of the Cinnabar Mine gorge.
Inside the carriage, Kaelen Vance leaned against a pile of silk cushions, holding a steaming celadon teacup in both hands.
He wore a fresh dark-blue robe of quilted satin, his hair neatly tied back with a black silk cord.
Outside the carriage windows, the cold afternoon wind howled through the granite ravines, carrying the sharp scent of burnt sulfur and spilled blood.
Barnaby Holt drove the mules from the front bench, his single scarred arm holding the reins with steady confidence. The wooden wheels crunched over frozen shale.
Beside the carriage rode Governor Titus Vane on his armored warhorse, flanked by thirty mounted Iron Guards. The soldiers held their heavy spears upright, their iron greaves spattered with dried red mud from the mountain roads.
Titus leaned toward the carriage window, his blackened iron breastplate creaking in the saddle.
“The Sunken Cinnabar Mine produces thirty cartloads of high-grade ore every week, Kaelen,” Titus warned. “If Cassian breaches the blast doors and collapses the lower shafts, the entire prefecture loses its geothermal array fuel.”
