A slow, rhythmic creaking filled the upper firmament as the days drifted past.
For nearly two days, Moon Nine rose steadily through the void.
The heat of the upper cosmos grew thick enough to scorch dry pine, but beneath the braided silk ropes of Kaelen’s hammock, the temperature stayed delightfully mild.
A gentle dome of cool morning mist, conjured by Mina’s frost-intent, shielded the three-legged bamboo stool and the hammock cradle from the cosmic glare.
Mina sat on a low wooden bench near the left pillar, a small porcelain plate of salted melon seeds resting on her knees.
Beside her, Deacon Vane worked diligently at his mahogany travel desk, his abacus beads clicking like busy crickets as he cataloged the silver receipts from the Grand Vault.
“Forty-eight thousand rolls of high-grade star-silk,” Vane muttered, dipping his brush into an inkpot. “Three hundred crates of celestial agarwood. If we open an auction house on Moon One, the profit margin will reach thirty-four percent.”
Barnaby Holt leaned against the balustrade, chewing on a dried bitter-root stem while he rubbed oil into his wooden ladle. “You are still counting silk while a ten-thousand-mile iron stove is dragging us toward its maw, Deacon. If that thing sneezes, your agarwood will turn into charcoal.”
