Despite Kaelen’s instruction to pack up the picnic blanket, nobody moved toward the iron door.
Ten paces away from his swaying hammock, the small camp remained comfortably settled on the stone pavers.
A gentle, citrus-scented warmth lingered in the air, kept alive by Barnaby Holt’s portable brazier. Beside the tea table, the four captured Sovereign Dao Peak Pill-Guards were still snoring in steady, resonant harmony, their massive iron shoulders rising and falling beneath three hundred yards of silver void-silk.
Barnaby carefully crushed a dried pear peel between his thumb and fingers, dropping the golden flakes into the simmering kettle.
“Patience is the foundation of longevity,” Barnaby remarked in a hushed murmur to Elder Sterling. “A man who rushes his tea rushes his grave. Drink slowly, breathe deeply, and let the stomach warm before you ask the heavens for enlightenment.”
Sterling nodded, his weathered fingers cradling a small earthenware cup. “In my youth, our sect master made us meditate on frozen crags with bare chests. We thought suffering was proof of virtue. Looking back, it was just terrible frostbite.”
A soft chime sounded from the silver Heaven-Step mirror resting on an overturned metal crate.
The polished glass surface rippled like disturbed water. A small lacquered cedar box slid smoothly through the spatial aperture, landing with a gentle wooden thud directly onto Linnea’s lap.
