The yawn stretched for three full breaths.
It was a slow, contented yawn. It was the kind produced by a man who had enjoyed nine hours of uninterrupted sleep. Now he had to decide whether to get out of bed or roll over for another twenty minutes.
The silence that followed was heavier than a falling mountain.
Ancestor Draven stood frozen three paces from the doorway. His jagged blood-halberd was cocked over his shoulder, but his arms refused to descend. The killing intent that had choked the corridor a heartbeat earlier had vanished, completely swallowed by an unnatural, immovable stillness.
Beside him, Ancestor Pyre and Ancestor Vesper stared at the doorway with wide, unblinking eyes.
Through the drifting mist of shattered frost, Kaelen Vance stood upon the threshold of Crater Island’s grotto.
He wore his faded blue flannel bathrobe, tied loosely at the waist with a frayed cord. His feet were tucked into worn straw slippers, and his uncombed hair fell casually over his brow. In his right hand, he held a warm porcelain teacup of oolong tea. In his left hand, he held Claire’s leather recipe book.
He looked less like a sovereign who had united two realms, and more like an irritable tenant answering the door for noisy milkmen.
