A thunderous crack of displaced air shattered the silence of the grotto threshold.
Inside Cold-Spring Grotto, Kaelen Vance was already back in his silk hammock, adjusting his down pillows.
He had barely pulled the feather quilt up to his chest when a figure appeared just inside the entrance.
There was no sound of footsteps on the porch. There was no creak of hinges.
There was only a sharp, electric hum and the crisp smell of ozone.
Elder Sterling stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared and his back straight as an ancient cedar. His long hair was glossy steel-black, hanging loose over clean gray robes. His weathered face was smooth and unlined, his dark amber eyes crackling with faint arcs of violet lightning.
The old swordsman stepped forward, knelt on both knees upon the polished pine floorboards, and pressed his forehead against the grain.
“Master Vance,” Sterling said, his voice deep, resonant, and steady as bedrock. “My meridians are restored. The fourth-realm boundary has opened. Six thousand units of spiritual Qi course through my vessels every hour, and my soul-sense covers ten kilometers.”
