Sera’s fingers froze on the leather strap of her shoulder pack.
Her gray eyes flicked to the central basalt anvil, then back to Kaelen’s calm face. A rare tremor touched her chin, but she swallowed hard and pulled the heavy leather strap over her head.
“Clear the terrace,” Elder Sterling barked, his voice echoing off the soot-stained rafters. “Every junior disciple and forge apprentice, descend to the lower gates immediately. Unauthorized viewing of master-level smithing carries thirty lashes.”
The remaining disciples needed no second warning. They scurried down the stone steps like startled mice, eager to put distance between themselves and the shattered sluice gate.
Elder Sterling lingered near the heavy stone threshold, clutching his iron tally rod. His breath rattled in his chest, a wet, wheezing cough breaking past his pale lips.
“You’re courting madness, Vance,” Sterling said, lowering his voice as he looked at the cold anvil. “Reforging an ancestral weapon requires an imperial smithy and three Golden Core masters channeling constant flame. You have a bamboo stick and half a pot of tea.”
“Tea is very good for focus, Elder,” Kaelen replied mildly, tapping his earthenware cup. “You should drink some. Your lungs sound like an old pair of leather bellows.”
