The morning mist over Moon Six tasted like burnt brass and frozen pine needles.
Kaelen Vance swung his legs out of the canvas hammock, his cloth slippers meeting the cold flagstones with a soft scuff.
Above the courtyard, the sky remained split into halves of angry crimson and bitter blue. The celestial winches gave their rhythmic groan every thirty seconds, pulling the satellite steadily through the void.
Six in the morning, Kaelen thought, rubbing his stiff neck. A true sovereign would still be sleeping for another three hours.
In the courtyard below the terrace, his companions were already gathered around an iron worktable.
Barnaby Holt was stirring a pot of coarse medicinal porridge with his wooden ladle. Elder Sterling sat cross-legged on a woven rush mat, his eyes closed as he monitored the humming barrier overhead.
Sera Thorne stood beside Claire Vance, both of them studying a large parchment map of the lower six moons.
“You’re awake early, young master,” Sera said, looking up as Kaelen walked down the stone stairs. “Did the artillery fire disturb you?”
