Almost fifteen hours after the last slate check, a fresh pot of red-bean tea was steaming when the wailing started at the bamboo gate.
“Master Ash!” a cracked voice sobbed through the garden fence. “The southern horizon is bleeding cinnabar! If you do not practice your sword forms before noon, the city will burn to ash!”
Kaelen Vance did not open his eyes. He pulled his straw hat down another half-inch, tucking his chin into his quilted blanket.
Outside the fence, eight senior elders of the Seven-Tower Conclave had formed a semi-circle on the gravel path. They were clutching ritual flywhisks, jade compasses, and brass prayer bells. Elder Lu was on both knees, beating his chest with a leather scroll case. Beside him, Elder Bai was openly weeping into his beard, his face red from theatrical despair.
“This is a Phase 3 nagging intervention,” a cool voice said from the porch steps.
Sera Thorne leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a dried persimmon slice.
Her black scout leathers were spotless, and her dark hair was bound tight with a strip of boiled leather. Across her knees rested the polished ash shaft of Storm-Pike. In her left hand, she held a thick, dog-eared volume bound in greasy bull-hide: her personal Overtime Grudge Ledger.
