A plain pine desk slammed onto the flagstones in the southeastern corner of the Outer Sect Exchange courtyard, drawing startled looks from passing disciples.
Caleb Conway smoothed the sleeve of his gray travel coat, retrieved a piece of white chalk from his pocket, and set a framed slate board upright on the corner of the wood. Behind him, the spatial ring on his finger pulsed with a muted golden resonance, depositing thirty heavy cedar crates in neat, towering stacks against the granite wall of the arcade. The scent of sweet Crimson Lotus leaves and the pungent, metallic tang of unrefined iron ore washed over the immediate flagstones, cutting through the stagnant air of the market.
For three days, the lower district had suffocated under a manufactured famine.
The outer cauldrons sat fr
