The iron tip of Sera Thorne’s spear leveled with Lord Voren’s throat, steady as a carved mountain pine.
“Halt,” Sera said. Her voice was flat, colder than the morning mist drifting off the koi pond. “Wipe your boots on the hemp mat. You’re tracking grit toward the porch.”
Lord Voren paused. He was a warlord of the Upper Firmament, commanding ten thousand void troops and an armada of forty war galleons.
Never in four centuries of service had anyone ordered him to wipe his boots.
Behind him, the Third and Fourth Moon-Lords halted on the gravel trail. Their heavy brocade mantles rustled in the mountain breeze, but their eyes remained fixed entirely on the small clay pot resting near Kaelen’s feet.
A wisp of white, sweet vapor still curled from the embers, carrying the scent of pure, unblemished medicine.
Elder Sterling stood three paces to Sera’s right, clutching a wooden talisman staff with both hands. His knuckles were white, and beads of cold sweat rolled into his gray beard.
“Honored Lords,” Sterling stammered, bowing until his spine formed a right angle. “We greet the rulers of the Second, Third, and Fourth Moons. Please forgive our humble defense.”
