The courtyard latch dropped into place with a dry brass snap, leaving Kaelen alone with the steam from his iron kettle.
He poured hot water over dried jasmine blossoms and took a slow, deliberate sip. The night air was sharp and cold, smelling of crushed pine needles and wet shale.
Two miles down the mountain, the distant toll of a bronze bell drifted up the gorge.
One stroke.
Two strokes.
Three strokes.
Midnight had arrived.
Kaelen settled deeper into his wicker chair on the covered porch, tucking a thick sheepskin blanket over his knees. He picked up his worn paper copy of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride, thumbing past the folded corner of page eighty-two.
