The brass hatch of the diving bell opened with a heavy pneumatic hiss.
A shimmering dome of compressed air bubbled outward from the rim, pushing back the scalding brine and creating a ten-foot pocket of dry atmosphere on the volcanic shelf.
Kaelen stepped out onto the basalt ledge in his cork sandals.
He stretched his arms above his head, rolling his shoulders until his spine gave three satisfying pops. The loose hem of his gray bathrobe fluttered in the warm draft of the air bubble.
“Nineteen days,” Kaelen remarked in a mild, conversational tone. “You have been banging that overgrown mallet right above my pillow during the best pages.”
Trench-Guardian Vulcan froze three paces away, his glowing hammer raised toward the ceiling of the sea.
The giant’s molten eyes bulged behind his battered visor. He had expected an army of armored champions or a concentrated volley from thirty naval ballistas.
Instead, the boy in the bathrobe was standing in front of him, yawning and dusting breadcrumbs from his collar.
