Fifty thousand high-grade spirit stones spilled from Kaelen’s spatial ring in a shimmering crystalline torrent.
They hovered in the air around the star-iron dome, forming a glowing ring of pure sapphire light. Each stone was carved with imperial master marks, clear as winter ice and humming with dense, concentrated spiritual power.
Down on the eastern battlements, Deacon Vane’s abacus slipped from his fingers, clattering against the stone floor.
“Fifty thousand,” Vane wheezed, pressing both hands against his ribcage as if suffering a sudden chest spasm. “Those are high-grade treasury ingots. That is the entire fiscal budget of the Southern Marches for an entire decade.”
He scrambled to his knees, frantically pawing through his silk pouch for his master tally slip.
“One hundred and seventy thousand minus fifty thousand leaves exactly one hundred and twenty thousand in reserve,” Vane muttered, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. “A manageable fortune, yes. But burning it in a single second is enough to make an honest accountant weep.”
Old Barnaby didn’t look up from his boiling tea kettle, though he gave his iron ladle a single, irritated flick.
“Quiet down, you greedy weasel,” Barnaby grunted. “If the boy needs stones to fuel his fire, he burns them. You can’t drink spirit stones when you’re dead.”
