A spray of crushed coral and black ice clattered across the cedar floorboards.
The final concussive blast from the outer shoals shuddered through the island’s stone foundation, but Kaelen Vance did not flinch. He picked a dried persimmon leaf from the tea tray and slipped it between pages ninety-two and ninety-three of his novel.
“Young Master,” Deacon Vane squeaked, peering over the edge of the stone railing. “The outer ice wall is cracking. The smoke has thinned by half. They are reloading for a full twelve-ship volley.”
Kaelen swung his legs over the side of the hammock.
He did not put on armor. He did not tie back his hair. He simply pulled his faded grey bathrobe tighter around his waist and stepped onto the cool porch planks in his cloth slippers.
Claire Vance stood by the courtyard archway, her arms folded across her pale robes. Her sharp gaze took in his unkempt hair and bare ankles.
“You are going to face twelve imperial dreadnoughts dressed for a bath,” Claire observed.
“Armor is heavy, Mother,” Kaelen said mildly. “It pinches the armpits and creates friction against the silk hem. If a man cannot defend his courtyard in flannel, he has failed as a cultivator.”
