Sera Thorne did not wait for the two overseers to finish sweeping the fence line.
The heavy warehouse wicket gate swung open with a dry screech of rusted hinges. Sera stepped into the slag yard, the star-iron tip of Storm-Pike held loosely at her side, trailing faint azure lightning sparks through the gray dust.
Behind her strode Princess Valeria, her royal dagger already drawn and held reverse-grip behind her wrist.
Overseer Wu and Overseer Fang dropped their willow brooms as if the handles had burst into blue flame.
“Mercy, grandmasters,” Wu squeaked, raising his soot-stained palms. “We swept the entire perimeter. The gravel is completely aligned. We swear we didn’t touch Master Ash’s porridge pot.”
Sera hooked the blunt curve of her spear beneath Wu’s velvet collar, hauling him three feet toward the shadow of the doorway.
“Inside,” Sera commanded, her voice cold as river ice. “Both of you. If you make a sound louder than a dying beetle, I’ll feed your abacuses to the furnace vats.”
The two portly inspectors stumbled into the dim warehouse like panicked sheep.
