Three days later, the morning sun had barely crested the eastern ramparts when Deacon Vane struck an iron gong.
Clang.
The sharp tone echoed across the stone courtyard of the Royal Censorate.
A long wooden desk had been set up on the flagstones. Behind it sat Deacon Vane and Sera Thorne, flanked by thirty heavily armored Vance guards.
Before the desk knelt the Four Imperial War-Lords.
Heavy black-iron chains bound their wrists and ankles. Their armor was gone, replaced by simple linen prisoner smocks. Their spirit channels remained locked beneath three layers of suppression talismans.
Off to the side of the lawn, Grand Alchemist Xuan paused his morning weeding.
The old man leaned on his iron shears, squinting through his straw hat at the chained commanders.
