Kaelen brushed the soot-stained delivery manifest off his chest, letting it flutter onto the dry stone floor.
“Let them hoard all the star-iron they want,” Kaelen said, pulling the wool blanket higher over his chin. “Melting through three hundred feet of mountain bedrock takes days. That gives me plenty of time for my nap.”
Deacon Vane wrung his hands, his round face gleaming with nervous sweat. “Young Master, they’re cutting the earth-veins! If the magma stops, the forge annex goes completely cold!”
“Worrying about cold rock before noon ruins the liver meridian,” Kaelen muttered, closing his eyes. “Sera, show the deacon the exit.”
Sera stepped forward, the iron butt of Storm-Pike tapping the stone with a dull clack.
“Outside, Deacon,” Sera said smoothly. “Panic without an appointment is billed at twenty spirit stones a minute.”
Deacon Vane swallowed his protests and scuttled backward into the shadowy tunnel.
Quiet settled over the cavern once more, but across the mountain, a very different kind of noise was brewing.
