The thick iron latch dropped into place with a dry, hollow click.
Kaelen leaned his back against the cold granite door of the forge chamber. Outside, the subterranean spring whispered over the limestone ledges. Inside, the stagnant air smelled of old sulfur, cold slag, and crushed charcoal.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed his neck. Working before lunch was terrible for his health. A sensible man would be under three quilts right now, dreaming of spiced plums. Instead, he had an execution decree hanging over his head and two corrupt academy directors waiting to skin him on Friday.
If Karst and Vayne want a show, he thought, they can pay for the tickets.
He carried the dented bronze brazier over to the stone hearth in the center of the floor.
A heavy Tier 4 cauldron sat upon the central pedestal. Its bronze belly was dark with age, etched with worn cloud runes from an older dynasty. Kaelen set his brazier down, pulled up a low wooden stool, and sat.
In his sea of consciousness, the translucent gray stone floated in silent stillness.
[The Fallow Slate]
