The silver mist swirling around the grotto entrance thickened into a solid, impenetrable wall of Saint-grade wards.
Elder Sterling planted the pommel of his five-foot broadsword into the mossy turf right outside the archway, his eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk. Behind him, Barnaby Holt was carefully hanging twelve woven dream-lotus charms from the cedar rafters, each charm enchanted to absorb stray ambient noise.
Inside the grotto, Kaelen shifted on his hemp hammock, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders.
For sixteen years, every single authority figure in his life had screamed at him to get off his rear and swing a rusty sword until his palms bled. Old Barnaby used to chase him across the herb sheds with a wooden ladle.
Patriarch Derrick had delivered two-hour lectures on martial dignity in the family courtyard. First Brother Cassian had sneered at his afternoon naps, calling him a disgrace to the Vance bloodline.
Now, the entire world had turned completely upside down.
Earlier that morning, Claire Vance had assembled the island’s high council on the stone veranda. She had pinned a massive strategic chart to the timber wall, tapping it with a steel pointer while Sera Thorne stood beside her with arms crossed.
