The bronze heating vents in the Inner Sanctum hissed with dry, scorching vapor at noon on Day 13.
Elder Mordan had entered the chamber shortly before noon, followed by two sweating apprentices who hauled a heavy crate of rare ingredients.
The Seventh Tower elder looked like a man condemned to death.
His purple silk robes were soaked with cold sweat. His hands shook as he unlatched the crate, setting out Tier 5 Blood-Marrow Ginseng, petrified dragon-gall, and nine vials of crimson spirit-dew.
“Master Vance,” Mordan had stammered, bowing toward the velvet divan where Kaelen lay resting. “I must beg your forgiveness for intruding on your sacred convalescence. Volkov postponed his inspection; it is tomorrow now. If I cannot present eight Tier 5 Blood-Marrow Cleansing Pills, my head will decorate the Seventh Spire’s battlements.”
“Grandmaster Volkov executed the Sixth Tower Elder last winter for producing seventy-eight percent purity,” Mordan whimpered, wiping his trembling chin. “He had the poor man flayed and hung from the intake chimneys. If my batch fails today, I am a dead man.”
“The Second and Third Tower Elders are plotting against me as well,” Mordan added, his voice breaking with petty grievance. “They bribed the main gate inspectors to withhold my shipment of cold-vein frost salt. They want my cauldron to overheat so they can claim my fifth-floor apartments.”
