The golden chime inside Kaelen Vance’s dantian faded into a cool, humming stillness.
Beneath the brim of his straw hat, Kaelen slowly opened one eye.
The morning sea breeze carried the smell of brine and damp peat. The garden path was entirely silent.
Down by the perimeter fence, three hooded figures slumped against the split cedar rails.
Their coarse hemp aprons were torn and caked with dried black mud. Their knuckles were swollen, their fingernails split, and their heads hung low with mortal exhaustion.
Ancestor Pyre had not moved his boots for three hours. He sat on an upturned wooden bucket, his grey beard speckled with dried clay.
Beside him, Ancestor Draven massaged his stiff knees with trembling fingers. Ancestor Vesper leaned his forehead against a fence post, wheezing softly like an old blacksmith’s bellows.
Not a single weed remained in the garden. The turnip patch was as smooth and dark as black silk, with three dozen plump white turnips glistening under the dawn dew.
