The hours before dawn were the coldest of the year.
Inside the dark notary office, the small charcoal fire bowl had burned down to grey embers. That left the room smelling of cold stone salt water, rain-soaked wool, and ancient leather that had rotted in the damp salt air. Ren Vale woke from his restless, shallow sleep, his boots stiff against the warped pine floorboards, his shoulders aching with the persistent memory of the iron chains in Cell Four.
He sat up slowly in the rickety wooden chair, bracing his spine against the whitewashed brick wall.
The physical collapse that had struck him in the alley was held at bay. But the body ledger of the trial was far from cleared. Beneath the linen bandages wrapped tightly around his forearms, his veins throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—the purple ink-rot lingering like frozen lead in his deep tiny blood vessels. Every time he clenched his right hand, a phantom flare of heat ran along his forearm nerve, reminding him that scribing contracts in his own bright red blood was a transaction that carved away at his marrow.
He reached into his leather field satchel, checking each item with the quiet, deliberate care of a craftsman preparing for a long winter journey. The glass vials of dark oak-ink, the small jar of ox-gall solvent, the gum arabic, the horn scrapers, the tightly packed linen bandages. The leftover twist of dried willow-bark tea. Every tool had its place. Every vial was corked…
