The Scroll hall of Embalmers had not seen a living hand in two hundred years. But its black limestone walls remembered the smell of cold marrow.
Ren Vale leaned his weight against the edge of a massive granite drafting bench, his fingers digging into the dust-coated stone. Beneath his woolen tunic, the stabilizing resin splints held his collarbone fast. But the dull, crystal-clear ache inside his skeleton refused to subside. Every shift in stance sent tiny, phantom twinges through his ribs. Artificer Ren’s warning echoed in his thoughts. His bones were quartz now, rigid and unforgiving, prone to stress fractures if subjected to sudden torque. Even the simple act of leaning over the drafting table needed conscious balance, ensuring his elbows absorbed the load before his fragile shoulders took the strain.
He unstoppered his tin canteen and took a small swallow of salty stone salt water. It burned his tongue with the familiar tang of sulfur and iron. But it was the only fluid his altered body could tolerate without breaking out in weeping blisters.
Yet the ache in his bones was nothing compared to the storm howling between his ears.
Seven bushels of winter rye... Delivered to the north granary... Unmarked, unpaid...
