The sapphire light of the architectural schematic pulsed in the morning air above Crater Island.
Lines of celestial runes rotated slowly like the rings of an immense clockwork planetarium.
Across the vast reaches of the northern sea, two hundred and twenty-two allied warships floated in silent formation. One million cultivators looked up at the shimmering projection, their breaths held tight in their chests.
The chaos of the ninety-day siege seemed to hold its breath.
On the terrace of Crater Island, the morning sun warmed the broken flagstones.
Barnaby Holt walked over with a steaming iron kettle, carefully refilling Kaelen’s porcelain teapot with boiling spring water. He set down a small wooden dish holding three thick slices of steamed sweet potato.
“Breakfast, young master,” Barnaby said softly. “A man cannot audit imperial blueprints on an empty stomach.”
“Barnaby speaks the truth,” Kaelen agreed, picking up a slice of sweet potato with two fingers. “Complex mathematics require adequate starch.”
