The cabin door swung inward with a dry creak.
Kaelen Vance walked out onto the damp river deck, his fleece-lined slippers padding softly across the cedar planks.
In his left hand, he held a delicate blue porcelain saucer, left over from his morning tea tray.
His black silk blindfold was tied neatly over his eyes, and the belt of his grey bathrobe was tied in a loose, casual knot at his hip.
Out on the battered dike, thirty exhausted patriarchs turned their heads, their faces smeared with soot and dried blood.
Sera Thorne lowered her crackling Storm-Pike, her amber eyes widening as she felt the sudden shift in the river’s aura.
Beside her, Elder Sterling leaned on his broadsword, letting out a long, raspy chuckle through his broken teeth.
“The young master is awake,” Sterling rumbled, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his gauntlet. “And he brought kitchen crockery.”
