The thick granite slab of Cold-Spring Grotto’s inner sanctum rolled shut on its bronze tracks, sealing out the damp evening fog.
A heavy iron drop-bolt fell into the carved stone jamb with a solid, echoing thud. Outside the reinforced door, the mountain crickets chirped in the pines, their songs blending with the steady rush of the valley stream.
An hour earlier, Kaelen Vance had walked up the winding mountain path carrying his folded bamboo cot under one arm.
Elder Sterling had marched beside him, still clutching a flagon of spiced plum wine he had won from the Nine-Cauldron Guild elders. The old sword master had laughed all the way from the bridge to the grotto gates.
“You should have seen Doran’s face,” Sterling had cackled, slapping his thigh. “The man looked like he swallowed a live toad. Fifty years of Pill House arrogance wiped out by five minutes of barony charcoal.”
Old Barnaby had met them at the gatehouse, waving his wooden ladle like a battle banner. “I knew the boy wouldn’t forfeit. A boy who sleeps that deeply always has an angle. Even if his angle involves giving me a heart attack in front of ten thousand people.”
In the courtyard, Sera Thorne stood watch beneath the cedar eaves.
