Barnaby Holt slammed his wooden ladle against the porch rail before Kaelen could even finish his sigh.
“Your afternoon?” Barnaby roared, his arm shaking with pure fury. “The Fourth Pill-Moon wants our heads on spikes, and you’re worrying about your nap!”
“Worrying causes wrinkles, Old Barnaby,” Kaelen murmured, setting his chipped tea bowl onto the cedar planks. “Besides, tea tastes sour when people shout.”
Six hours later, their captured Inquisition skiff touched down upon the neutral flagstones of Moon Three’s central plaza.
The plaza stretched across two miles of white marble, suspended between jagged peaks of pale moon-quartz. Thousands of spectator balconies hung from the sheer cliffs above, packed with robes of every color. Guild masters, merchant princes, and lower-moon elders leaned over the carved balustrades, their voices rising in a constant roar.
In the center of the plaza rose a massive circular dais carved from obsidian.
Grand Chief Alchemist Voran stood on the far side of the platform, flanked by twenty armored retainers. He wore heavy crimson silks embroidered with golden flames, his long white beard braided with jade beads. Behind him rested a towering bronze furnace shaped like a roaring tiger, pulsing with the chill radiance of a Sovereign Ice-Flame brazier.
