The cold pre dawn draft whipped through the broken eaves of the Ruined Peak, carrying the sour scent of sulfur and wet pine needles across the empty courtyard.
Ye Chen walked past the humming ward stones he and Han Ping had planted, his heavy boots clicking softly against the flagstones as he approached the kitchen door.
Inside the low ceilinged workshop, the brick hearth was not roaring with roasted pork or bubbling plum wine.
A single bed of white hot coals glowed in the forge pit, casting long, somber shadows across the slate worktable where Elder Mu stood with his back turned to the door.
The old man was sober.
His wild gray hair was tied back with a clean strip of leather, and his hands, usually coated in kitchen grease and chili sauce, were scrubbed clean to the bone.
He did no
