Sera Thorne kicked the cellar grate shut with the heel of her boot, sealing the two groaning scouts in the dark.
Morning sunlight burned away the mountain fog, bathing the terrace of Cold-Spring Grotto in pale gold.
Kaelen Vance adjusted the hemp pillow behind his neck and stretched his legs across the canvas hammock.
A steaming cup of chrysanthemum tea rested on the low wooden stool beside him. Across his chest lay an open copy of the seventh installment of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
The mountain was quiet. The birds hopped through the pine needles, and the cold mountain spring bubbled over the rocks.
This is how cultivation ought to be, Kaelen thought, taking a slow sip of tea. No screaming mentors. No iron cauldrons exploding in your face. Just crisp air, warm tea, and twenty pages of terrible mortal dialogue.
A low rumble of coordinated footsteps echoed up the ravine trail.
Kaelen paused with his teacup halfway to his lips. He let his divine sense drift down the stone steps.
