The rusty iron hoe settled into the mud beside Ancestor Pyre’s right sandal.
Ancestor Pyre stared down at the pitted tool, his breathing shallow and tight.
Eight hundred years of imperial dignity fought a silent, savage war against five centuries of toxic sediment in his lungs.
Beside him, Ancestor Draven’s fingers trembled. Draven looked from the rusty hoe to Kaelen Vance’s frayed flannel hem, his jaw muscles jumping beneath his beard.
Ancestor Vesper did not hesitate. The purple-robed Patriarch reached down with both hands, scooped up the middle hoe, and wiped a smear of wet grit against his silk trousers.
“Hurry,” Vesper wheezed, his voice barely louder than the morning wind. “Do not let the boy reconsider.”
The sliding screen door creaked open an inch. Deacon Vane crept onto the porch, clutching three rough hemp aprons against his chest.
Vane looked like a man delivering execution shrouds. His eyes darted between the three hooded figures, his pale cheeks quivering in terror.
