Sera Thorne did not strike.
Her spear tip dropped three inches. The howling grey wind-force swirling around the dark steel point dissolved into a thin, harmless breeze.
The Eastern War-Lord grinned down from his pedestal. His gold teeth caught the sickly purple glare of the blood conduits.
“Wise little girl,” the War-Lord mocked, resting his spiked dragon mallet back against his collarbone. “You have quick eyes for a caravan mercenary. If you touch this drum, half a million people die screaming.”
Sera did not waste breath trading insults.
She kicked off the stone rampart with her left boot, vanishing in a blur of midnight-steel armor. She did not retreat in panic. She fell back through the outer curtain wall in three long, gliding bounds, reaching the courtyard of the Royal Tea Garden within moments.
Linnea stood near the stone table, an open alchemy grimoire resting in her arms.
Beside her, Grand Alchemist Xuan was still on his knees in the dirt. His hands were raw and covered in green grass juice, his straw hat knocked sideways across his bald head.
