The hairline fracture appeared across the basalt flagstones directly between Kaelen’s cloth slippers.
It was no wider than a blade of dried grass at first. Then the seam glowed with the greasy, orange hue of subterranean sulfur.
A sharp gust of superheated steam hissed through the crack, carrying the stench of scorched kelp and boiling mineral salts.
Kaelen did not jump backward. Jumping required calf engagement, and he had spent the last twenty minutes achieving a state of complete spinal relaxation.
He simply shifted his weight to his right heel and lifted his celadon teacup two inches higher to save the brew from sulfur contamination.
A man cannot even offer his little sister a single comforting sentence without the floor catching fire.
This ocean has the worst hospitality in the four realms.
“Step back, Mina,” Kaelen said in an even voice.
