Iron birdcages lined the stone parapets of the upper lagoon.
Elder Sterling had mounted twelve bronze lanterns along the perimeter wall. Each lantern held a spirit-wax candle that flickered with pale blue light, illuminating the black waters of the cove.
High above the clouds, three copper-beaked spy crows circled on the ocean wind. They were imperial scouts dispatched by Inquisitor Thorne-Crow to monitor the island’s spiritual activity.
Whenever a crow drifted within two miles of the grotto, Barnaby Holt hurled a jagged river stone with his good arm. The stones whistled through the mist, driving the mechanical birds back toward the open sea.
“Keep the perimeter tight, Barnaby,” Sterling called out from the courtyard steps. “The young master is in deep seclusion. If a single feather drops into this grotto, the shock could disturb his circulation.”
Fifty yards away, inside his open-air pavilion, Kaelen Vance lay motionless in his hemp hammock.
He was not in deep seclusion. He was staring at the underside of his straw hat while listening to the rhythmic slosh of the tide against the rocks.
Stage 5 Hibernation Compression continued its quiet, tireless work. Every hour he rested in the Spirit Vein node counted as two full Fallow Hours on his tally.
