The cedar plank hung by two frayed loops of hemp twine from the iron curtain rod.
Charred black lettering stood out sharply against the pale grain, written in thick, unapologetic strokes:
FURNACE BOY CONVALESCING. LEAVE CHARCOAL BY THE BUCKET. NO ALCHEMY TALK.
Behind the plank, Kaelen lay sprawled across three thick woolen mats, his legs crossed at the ankles.
The radiant jade heat ducts humming beneath the black marble floor kept the corner pleasantly warm. A soft breeze from the upper ventilation louvers carried the scent of dry cedar and roasted barley.
Across the wide central corridor, the Third-Floor Senior Pill Hall hummed with quiet, prestigious activity.
Dozens of high-ranking guild alchemists in embroidered silk robes hovered over polished brass cauldrons, testing temperatures with silver thermometer needles. Attendants carried trays of dried lotus root, powdered pearl, and distilled dew-water, speaking in hushed, reverent whispers.
Here, unlike the smoky hell of the basement, there were no whips, no sulfur clinkers, and no screaming overseers.
