The morning gong of the Disciplinary Hall clanged seven times through the mountain mist, signaling the start of dawn tribunal hearings.
Down in the Outer Bamboo Courtyard, Kaelen Vance was minding a bed of gray embers.
A sweet, caramelized fragrance rose from the ashes where three fat purple sweet potatoes sizzled quietly on the stones.
Kaelen lay back in his coarse hemp hammock, his legs crossed at the ankles. His straw hat was tilted low over his nose, blocking out the bright morning glare that filtered through the cedar branches.
Beside the porch steps, Mina sat on a wooden stool, sipping warm ginger tea from a cracked clay mug. Her breath was steady, and the porcelain blue on her knuckles had faded into a faint, pale blush.
Sera Thorne leaned against the porch rail nearby. She had laid Renwick’s six confiscated iron maces in a neat row on the timber deck and was methodically polishing the steel studs with an oily rag.
“The dawn bell rang three hours ago,” Old Barnaby said, pacing back and forth across the dirt yard like a caged badger.
He waved his wooden ladle toward the northern ridge.
