A jagged splinter of cedar wood bounced off Lord Voren’s iron knee, tumbling into the freshly weeded dirt.
The Inquisition Envoy lowered his steel-toed boot, smoothing the front of his frost-patterned silk robes with cold arrogance. His silver mask gleamed in the pale morning light, catching the dawn glare like a polished mirror.
“Pitiable,” the Envoy said again, his voice ringing with aristocratic scorn. “Three lords of the outer satellites, reduced to kneeling in cow manure.”
Behind the Envoy, six armored Frost-Hound guards stepped down from the landing skids of the white skiff.
They carried heavy coils of soul-iron chains, each link etched with jagged suppression runes designed to bind rebellious immortals.
The Envoy raised a slender silver baton, pointing it directly past the kneeling lords toward the bamboo porch.
There sat Kaelen Vance.
Kaelen had slumped down into his rocking chair, his legs stretched out comfortably. His straw sandals dangled loosely from his bare heels, and his faded cotton bathrobe was bunched around his waist like an old sack.
