A cold, grating laugh echoed from the high balcony before the dust from the shattered dragon-cauldron could settle.
Ancestor Pyre stood at the gilded marble balustrade, his ancient face carved with deep, bitter lines. He leaned forward, pointing a withered finger down at Platform Seven.
“A clever trick, boy,” Pyre’s voice boomed across the caldera like grinding millstones. “Ninety-five percent purity on a Tier 8 Sun-Cleansing Pill. For an unknown third son from a mortal barony, you possess surprising talent.”
Kaelen Vance calmly scooped the two smoking halves of the cracked dragon-cauldron into his spatial ring.
“Thank you, Elder,” Kaelen said, his voice flat and unhurried. “Now if your attendants could unlock the iron cages on the western cliff, we will take our fifty guests and be on our way.”
Across the lake, on the western cliffside, fifty mainland alchemists hung inside heavy iron birdcages above the steaming lava. Their hands were bound with soul-suppression wire, and their faces were hollow from weeks of starvation.
Pyre’s thin lips curled into a mocking sneer.
“Release them?” Pyre laughed, the sound dry as dead leaves rattling in winter wind. “The conclave rules stated the hostages would be released only if the legendary Master Ash appeared to claim them.”
