The attic loft of the abandoned copper foundry smelled of stale coal dust, green rust, and boiling mint tea.
Rain drummed nonstop against the rotted slate roof, leaking through cracked shingles to drip into rusted tin buckets scattered across the floorboards. In the center of the loft, lit up by the flickering yellow light of a single animal fat lantern, sat the full council of the Vale household.
Brother Ren stood over a small cast-iron fire bowl, carefully stirring a clay mug of willow-bark infusion mixed with crushed marshmallow root, dried comfrey, and two drops of cold sweet-oil. The mixture had cooled to a lukewarm steam. Then, he brought it over to Ren Prime and pressed it gently into his blackened fingers.
“Drink, brother,” Brother Ren said softly, his voice full of quiet, rock-steady sorrow. “It won’t purge the iron-gall from your marrow—that’s the body weight you took upon your soul when the mirror opened—but it will cool the lining of your throat so you may breathe without choking. Every time you spoke in that court, your blood cried through your lungs.”
Ren Prime took the mug and drank deeply. The liquid was thick, earthy, and intensely bitter. But it washed over his inflamed throat-pipe. Then, the sensation of swallowing broken glass dulled to a manageable ache. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.
