The crescent moon hung over the Guild Tower like a curved silver hook.
It was three in the morning—Hour 385 of Kaelen’s slumber, with the Fallow Slate humming at a three hundred and eighty-six times multiplier. A biting alpine breeze swept across the high bell-tower roof, rustling the slate tiles.
Barnaby Holt stood watch on the western parapet. His single scarred arm gripped a six-foot iron alchemy pestle, its heavy rounded head resting against his boot.
Twenty years ago, losing his left arm in an earth-fire explosion had ended his days at the grand furnaces. Yet decades of grinding iron-hard roots had turned his remaining right arm into a solid beam of seasoned oak.
Beside him sat twelve-year-old Mina Vance, bundled in her quilted coat with rabbit-fur trim. Her dark eyes were fixed on the cloudless night sky.
“Anything on the wind, Lady Mina?” Barnaby whispered softly.
Mina tilted her head, listening to the high mountain drafts. “Wings. Big wings, gliding down from the western crags.”
Barnaby squinted into the pale moonlight.
