Forty real hours after the installation milestone, a white silk truce pennant fluttered from the iron mast of a slender black cutter cutting through the afternoon tide.
The ship sailed into the outer harbor of Void Lotus Isle without escort, its oars dipping in formal, measured strokes.
The iron bell atop the western watchtower chimed three measured tolls, signaling the arrival of an imperial diplomatic party.
Elder Sterling stood on the marble terrace of the seaside pavilion, his broadsword resting across his knees as his white brows furrowed in suspicion.
“An envoy from Inquisitor Thorne-Crow,” Sterling rumbled, his deep voice vibrating through the stone balustrade. “Flying a white flag after we burned ten Ashen Sun warships.”
Barnaby Holt leaned against a red pillar, brandishing his polished iron ladle like a war-hammer.
“They never send envoys when they are winning,” Barnaby spat, crossing his thick arms. “When they are winning, they send fire-ships and executioners. If they are waving white silk, they have a dagger tucked inside their sleeve.”
Footsteps clicked sharply against the marble paving stones.
