A rusted iron grate rattled above Kaelen Vance’s nose as the heavy oak door of Booth Nine swung shut.
The chamber smelled faintly of vinegar, dried salt, and thirty years of old rust. Hanging directly beneath the Sky-Bridge’s public execution platform, the ceiling was made of thick iron beams laced with drain slots meant to wash away the stains of condemned traitors.
“This is an outrage,” Sera Thorne said, driving the butt of her spear into the flagstones. “Morvane put us in the butcher’s stall. When the morning court convenes, the dust from the executioners’ boots will sift down through the slats.”
Elder Sterling reached up, touching the dark iron grate with a grim expression.
“The spiritual conduit runs straight through here,” Sterling said, shaking his head. “Any shockwave from the high stage vents into this room. A single Nascent Soul strike above would crack the ceiling.”
Mina set the bronze tea kettle on a low charcoal brazier in the corner.
“It’s very dark in here, Brother,” Mina murmured, looking around with a small frown.
“It’s perfect,” Kaelen said from the plush down mattress he had dragged into the darkest corner.
