A dull shudder traveled through forty feet of solid granite as iron anchor flukes bit into the outer reef.
Kaelen Vance did not twitch. He rested on his side in the silk hammock, his breathing slow and shallow. A wide straw hat covered his nose and eyes, shielding him from the azure luminescence of the Spirit Vein.
The heavy copper bells at the grotto entrance clattered violently.
Footsteps pounded across the slick cavern path. Boots skidded over wet limestone, splashing through runoff pools from the condensation basins.
“Young master!” Elder Sterling bellowed, his voice cracking on the final syllable. “They are dropping anchor! The entire horizon is blood-red!”
Barnaby Holt followed right behind him, waving his seasoned iron ladle like a war-club. Tears ran down the old alchemist’s scarred cheeks, leaving shiny tracks through soot and gray stubble.
“A hundred warships, lad!” Barnaby wailed, gasping for breath. “Three Saint Vessel Peak clones lead the vanguard! Their blood-light is scorching the clouds off the sky!”
Linnea rounded the stone screen last. Her hair hung in damp tangles, and she clutched three rolls of defensive array diagrams to her chest.
