The low groan of forty charging siege cannons vibrated through the bedrock, shivering the lake’s glassy surface.
High above the cloud-reef, the sky bled a bruised violet. Azure flames crackled along the prows of the Frost-Flame War Galleons, painting the mountain peaks in cold, predatory light.
Down in the courtyard of the Moon Governor’s citadel, Kaelen Vance thrust a wooden spade into Deacon Vane’s hands.
“Start digging, Deacon,” Kaelen said.
Deacon Vane stared at the splintered handle, his mouth falling open. He adjusted his lavender silk cuffs with trembling fingers.
“Young Master,” Deacon Vane stammered, his eyes darting toward the fleet hovering overhead. “Those are imperial siege vessels. Their prow cannons are locked onto our skulls. Why am I holding a turnip shovel?”
“Because a grandmaster doesn’t live in an imperial fortress,” Kaelen replied mildly. “It lacks artistic soul. Dig a ditch three feet wide along the flagstones.”
Old Barnaby came stomping around the corner, hauling an armful of weathered cedar planks. He dumped them onto the marble terrace with a deafening clatter.
