Dawn on Day 95 arrived with the cold, pale clarity of mountain winter. A rim of brittle rime-frost coated the flat stone slabs around the southern gallery mouth, crunching under heavy boots like broken glass. The sun had not yet cleared the jagged eastern ridge of the Spine. But the high granite crags caught the first pink wash of daylight, throwing the deep basin below into sharp, violet relief. Down in the valley, thin plumes of grey smoke drifted straight up from cottage hearths into the dead calm air. It smelled of dry pine knots, burning peat, and the bitter stone bite of the lower tailings.
Kezra Venn stood on the flat threshold stone of the newly opened gallery. She was wrapped in her waxed field coat against the dawn wind. Beside her stood Adra Pike, leaning on her iron pruning hook. Voss, carrying his sounding hammer and a heavy iron pry-bar. The watchwoman Cressa, her short hunting bow slung across her sheepskin shoulder. And a dozen basin growers and miners who had climbed the stepped path at sunrise to witness the morning’s work.
Behind them stood Kezra’s companions. Davren, leaning heavily on his ash stick, his newly oiled knee brace catching the morning light. Yseld Arken, watching the northern skyline with her hooked climbing staff held at the ready. Paxa Sel, her medical satchel slung across her chest. And Fellis Dain, holding his survey tally board against his braced left forearm. Meanwhile, his right hand checked the tension of…
