The dawn mist still clung to the stone eaves of the Mission Pavilion as the ironbound entrance doors groaned open.
Caleb Conway stepped across the raised threshold into the cavernous hall, his boots clicking softly against the polished slate floor. Unlike the chaotic frenzy of the exchange district, the early morning hours here were quiet, save for a few night-shift couriers organizing delivery pouches and the dry scratching of charcoal pencils against rough bulletin boards. A dozen massive timber display boards lined the western wall, each divided into distinct tiers of difficulty marked by colored ribbons of silk.
Caleb bypassed the white and yellow boards where common outer disciples scrambled for herb-gathering tasks and ditch-clearing duties.
He had amassed over twelve thousand Mer
