The pale silver glow of the distant soul-lantern was swallowed by the coastal fog, leaving only the rhythmic splash of muffled oars.
By midnight, the seventy-four warships and six transport dreadnoughts glided safely past the jagged outer reefs of Void Lotus Isle.
Ten thousand rescued prisoners were brought ashore under the flickering torches of the southern harbor.
Deacon Vane scurried along the docks like a manic squirrel, assigning warm congee, wool blankets, and sleeping mats to the exhausted crowds.
Among the refugees were seventy-two former alchemists and cauldron apprentices.
Their hands were raw from digging salt, and their robes were caked in brine. Many of them knelt on the damp sand, weeping in relief as they smelled the fresh mountain air of the island.
Linnea stood on the stone steps of the Grand Alchemy Hall, watching the newcomers with sharp, determined eyes.
Since advancing to the peak of the Spirit Domain, her spiritual senses were sharper than ever. She did not see frail refugees; she saw an army of cauldron hands waiting to be forged.
