The velvet pouch sank another half-inch into the black tidal mud.
Ancestor Draven’s right index finger twitched toward his sleeve. A faint crimson hum buzzed beneath his fingernails, sharp enough to part the morning fog.
Nobody had kicked money at Ancestor Pyre in eight hundred years. He was the Supreme Patriarch of the Ashen Sun Sanctuary. Whole island federations knelt when his shadow crossed their harbors.
Now, five thousand Sovereign Jade Cores lay face down in pig-weed and coastal slime.
Kaelen Vance did not seem to notice the fiery glow spreading across Pyre’s sandals. He leaned his hip against the weathered cedar railing of the porch, clutching his dented tin watering can by its bent handle.
He raised his free hand and let out a long, raspy yawn. His jaw popped softly at the end of it.
“Don’t track that mud up my cedar steps,” Kaelen muttered, wiping a speck of sleep from the corner of his left eye. “I swept them on Tuesday, and I don’t plan to hold a broom again until autumn.”
“Mortal insolence,” Draven hissed through clenched teeth.
