Five quiet hours after the 240-hour seals locked, a faint scratching sound against the oiled windowpane stirred Kaelen Vance from his afternoon nap.
He did not open his eyes. The canvas of his hammock was warm, smelling faintly of clean river wind and dry hemlock. Below the porch, the six sect patriarchs were still pulling turnip weeds with rhythmic, muffled grunts.
Barnaby Holt’s whisper came through the wooden lattice, raspy and thin as dry grass.
“Boy. Wake up. We have a blood crisis in the lower gorge.”
Kaelen pulled the straw hat down tighter over his nose. “Unless the lower gorge is on fire and the smoke is blowing into my bedroom, the crisis can wait until sunset.”
“Nine of Valeria’s forward scouts triggered a miasma trap,” Barnaby hissed, his voice trembling with genuine urgency. “Morvane’s enforcers seeded the ravine trail with Black-Bile Corpse-Spikes. The men are convulsing on the temple floor.”
Princess Valeria’s boots clicked softly against the flagstones as she rounded the corner of the porch.
Her jaw was tight, her grey tunic spattered with dark mud from the valley run. “Barnaby’s telling the truth, Kaelen. The venom is eating through their blood vessels.”
