That peace lasted exactly four minutes.
A wooden bung bounced across the flagstones, spraying three drops of stale liquid against Elder Sterling’s hem.
“Only two inches left in the third barrel!” a teamster yelled, his cracked lips pale with fear. “The northern gorge is walled shut with granite, and the sun is eating our casks alive!”
The three hundred exiles began to murmur, their voices sharp with rising terror.
They had survived imperial work camps and bandit warlords. But thirst in the Salt-Waste was a slow, agonizing death that no amount of courage could fight.
Deacon Vane scurried across the plaza, his abacus beads clicking in frantic bursts.
“Three hundred mortals and cultivators,” Vane wheezed, his knuckles white. “Three remaining water casks. Even with strict rationing, we’ll run dry in thirty-six hours. The alkali dust in the air absorbs moisture from the lungs.”
Elder Sterling paced back and forth, waving his longsword scabbard at the sheer limestone walls.
