Kaelen Vance set his teacup down with a quiet click as Sera closed her leather ledger.
The sulfur smoke drifting from the southern strait was already thinning into pale gray ribbons against the noon sky. Down in the harbor, thirty ice-locked warships rested quietly against the stone piers, their crew flags struck.
“Collect it with interest,” Kaelen said. “Just do not make him scream outside my bedroom window next time.”
Sera offered a crisp, mercantile nod. She turned on her heel and headed toward the lower docks to supervise the salvage crews.
Across the gravel courtyard, four familiar figures stood near the garden gate.
Old Barnaby clutched a charred wooden ladle, his gray beard twitching with nervous energy. Beside him stood Linnea, holding a sheaf of botanical notes, and Deacon Vane, who was nervously polishing a pair of brass spectacles.
Elder Sterling stood just behind them, his weathered hand resting on the pommel of his broadsword. His silver hair fluttered in the sea breeze, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
Like the other three retainers, Sterling lingered at Spirit Domain Peak. His meridians had reached their natural limit, straining under the pressure of endless defensive battles.
