Kaelen Vance tugged his linen blindfold down until it covered the bridge of his nose.
He did not look at the toxic stone sitting on the rosewood table. He deliberately avoided glancing at the brass rubbings Barnaby had spread across the quarterdeck railing.
If he looked at those ancient spatial runes, his mind would instinctively start analyzing the mathematical geometry. That would trigger a burst on Track 3, burn his comprehension streak, and shatter his precious afternoon dormancy before the kettle had even cooled.
“Do not describe the rune shapes to me,” Kaelen said from beneath his blanket. “Do not tell me the line angles, the ink composition, or the dimensional vectors. Just tell me what the ledger says.”
Beside the palanquin, Claire Vance adjusted a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses, a thick sheaf of parchment records resting across her lap. Linnea stood at her elbow, carefully cross-referencing mine extraction logs dating back three hundred years.
“The logs are quite explicit, young master,” Linnea said, her tone filled with quiet disgust. “These twelve islands were never meant to supply mortal markets. Their entire infrastructure was designed to feed the Upper Firmament.”
“Explain,” Kaelen muttered, pulling the quilted wool higher over his chin.
