The midnight shadows across the First Spire’s roof were as thick as spilled ink at the start of Day 32.
High above the silent streets, the hundred-foot black-iron sky-galley creaked against its anchor cables. The cold desert wind whistled through the ship’s rigging, carrying the sharp scent of damp lead and whale oil.
A loose copper roof vent lifted by three inches without making a sound.
A slender silhouette slipped out of the opening, gliding across the slates like a drift of mountain snow.
Mina Vance moved with effortless, soundless grace.
At twelve years old, her small frame allowed her to navigate the narrow maintenance chutes that no adult cultivator could ever squeeze through.
Even better, her Absolute Zero Yin-Vein absorbed every wisp of her natural body heat. To the sensory wards carved into the spire’s eaves, she was as cold and invisible as a falling snowflake.
She crawled through the horizontal exhaust duct, dropping softly onto a bronze rafter sixty feet above the central cargo dock.
