Kaelen tied the second hemp cord around the basalt pillar with a neat double slipknot.
He tested the tension with his elbow, satisfied that the triple-quilted canvas hammock swung three feet above the floor.
Directly beneath the hammock, the natural fissure in the bedrock exhaled a gentle, steady draft of dry subterranean warmth.
It was not the foul sulfur fumes from Scythe’s ambush point. It was a clean thermal current rising from an ancient spirit vein four miles down.
Under the rules of Stage 5 Hibernation Compression, sleeping directly above an active vein doubled his natural accumulation rate.
Every real hour he rested counted as two full Fallow Hours on the tally.
Forty-eight hours of sleep in this draft equals ninety-six hours of slate cultivation.
Add two hours for a leisurely post-nap yawn, and that is a clean century of hours.
