The morning breeze ruffled the frayed hem of Kaelen Vance’s flannel bathrobe.
On the shattered terrace of Crater Island, Ancestor Pyre remained pressed flat against the granite flagstones, his cheek grinding into the soot. Ancestor Vesper knelt five paces back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, while Ancestor Draven slumped against the stone balustrade, staring at his empty, trembling hands.
They did not speak.
The sheer, immovable weight of the First Ancestor’s visage hung over them like an iron bell.
Kaelen took a sip of his oolong tea, looking down at his sleeves with mild displeasure.
“Fighting at Saint Vessel Late is simply too much administrative paperwork,” Kaelen muttered aloud. “The drag on my meridians feels like wearing wet woolen socks in a winter storm.”
Claire Vance, standing beside Mina and Sera, blinked in surprise. “Kaelen?”
“Give me four minutes,” Kaelen said, his tone as casual as an apprentice stepping out to fetch fresh parsley. “If I have to clean the front porch, I prefer doing it with proper tools.”
