The red ink looked wet under the amber glow-stone, as if the blood had only just been drawn.
Elder Sterling leaned over the low cedar bench, his left hand gripping the wooden rim so hard that pine splinters bit into his palm. His bandaged shoulder throbbed with a dull ache, but he did not feel it.
His eyes were locked on the anatomical sketches in the report.
“Read it aloud, Deacon,” Sterling rasped, his voice sounding like dry stones scraping in an iron pot. “Every word.”
Deacon Vane swallowed hard, adjusting his bronze-rimmed spectacles with trembling fingers. The chief appraiser held the damp parchment close to the amber light.
“The procedure is called Core Leaching,” Vane whispered, his thin chest rising and falling. “It was performed in the underground infirmary beneath the Regent’s field redoubt. Each of the thirty graduates was bound to an obsidian altar with silver-veined suppression spikes.”
Sera Thorne stepped closer, her hand resting on the ash shaft of Storm-Pike. Her knuckles were white.
“Go on,” Sera said quietly.
