Iron-banded wheels ground cobblestones to powder as Patriarch Morvane’s bronze war-chariot crested the rise toward the Sky-Bridge plaza.
Four armored scale-drakes dragged the war wagon forward, their heavy tails sweeping through the autumn dust. Each reptile was the size of a river barge, their iron bridles clinking in rhythm with their heavy treads.
Kaelen Vance sat on the shaded balcony of the Cloud-Rest Teahouse, three hundred yards above the plaza.
A bamboo awning kept the late-morning sun off his brow. He wore his faded grey linen robe, leaning his ribs against a wicker armchair while balancing a steaming cup of roasted barley tea on his knee.
People who ride bronze chariots into merchant squares have never paid for street repairs, Kaelen thought, taking a cautious sip. That chariot weighs four tons. Every rotation of its iron tires is shaking the sediment in my teacup, and good roasted barley does not deserve such turbulence.
Beside him, Sera Thorne sat with her boots propped on the wooden railing. Her storm-spear rested against the table leg, wrapped in dark oiled linen.
Mina Vance hovered near the low charcoal brazier, carefully blowing on the kettle spout to keep the water simmering. Her small face was tight with worry as she peered through the bamboo blinds at the gathering crowd.
