The cedar shutter slammed against stone as the sea wind gusted into the pavilion.
Across the reef, Inquisitor Thorne-Crow’s flagship hung like an obsidian cloud. Farther out, crimson flares marked the converging fleets of the Three Sanctuary Ancestors. Ninety dreadnoughts were closing an encirclement.
Inside the shaded room, Kaelen Vance did not look at the water.
He nudged his straw hat over his brow. A cool draft brushed his linen slippers.
“He is sleeping,” Barnaby Holt bellowed from the doorway. “Ninety dreadnoughts outside, and the boy tests a pillow.”
The old herbalist marched inside. A stack of tallies was tucked beneath one arm, while his other hand brandished a wooden stew ladle.
Elder Sterling strode in behind him, silver hair bound in iron. He carried two training blades across his shoulder.
“Rise, young master,” Sterling ordered. “The Censorate will not wait. You need three thousand sword repetitions before sunset.”
