Deacon Vane delivered another 250 Mid-Grade stones of syndicate proceeds to the household reserve, bringing its gross cash to 18,750. Elder Sterling leaned his broad back against the iron silence plaque, scowling down the ravine like a hawk guarding an empty nest.
The cedar grove was quiet. Below the rocky ledge, the twelve minor sect elders weeded Kaelen’s turnip patch without making a sound. They crawled through the dark dirt on their knees, plucking nettles with careful fingers and piling the roots into silent woven baskets.
Sterling grunted under his breath. The mountain wind stirred his white hair, chilling the cracked core in his chest.
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the porch.
Kaelen Vance was asleep on his wooden bench. A straw hat covered his eyes, his rope slippers dangled over the porch edge, and a bowl of roasted barley tea sat cooling beside his elbow. Two small plugs of yellow beeswax were wedged snugly into his ears.
Sterling reached deep into the left breast of his sword robes.
His rough fingers found the frayed edges of the dog-eared pamphlet he had confiscated three weeks earlier. The paper was creased and stained with damp tea rings, bearing the faded title: The Bandit King’s Secret Bride, Book 4.
