A thin shaft of amber morning light sliced through the high ventilation slit of the Inner Sanctum.
It was noon on Day 12.
Outside the heavy brass doors, four elite squads in black dragon-scale armor stood in total, terrified silence. Not a single spear butt touched the stone. Not a single boot creaked. Elder Mordan’s death threat had turned the fifth-floor corridor into a graveyard.
Inside the chamber, the quiet was just as profound.
Elder Sterling sat cross-legged on a woven rush mat in the antechamber, his iron sword resting flat across his knees.
For the first two hours of the morning, the old guardian had performed his duties with meticulous care. He had cleaned every inch of his straight iron blade with warm sheep tallow and a square of boiled linen. He had checked the brass bolts on the double doors three times, ensuring that no stray draft could disturb Kaelen’s sleep.
Only after confirming that the entire floor was secure did Sterling allow himself a brief moment of leisure.
He reached into the breast pocket of his coarse furnace tunic.
