The Flame Envoy hovered frozen in mid-air for half a breath, his glowing red gauntlets locked in mid-descent.
He blinked through his helmet visor, staring down at the young man who had just tossed his blindfold into the dirt.
“You dare insult my divine lineage,” the Envoy snarled, his voice trembling with outrage. “You wore a rag over your eyes while the army of Sovereign Vael stood at your gates.”
Kaelen Vance did not answer immediately.
He walked over to the stone brazier at the corner of the pavilion terrace. The copper kettle was still warm, kept gently simmering by the ambient solar heat filling the valley.
Kaelen picked up a cracked porcelain teacup and poured himself two fingers of dark, fragrant oolong.
Within his chest, the golden script on the Fallow Slate spun with blazing clarity.
Two months of undisturbed sleep, Kaelen thought, taking a slow, appreciative sip. Now it is time to collect the harvest.
