The smell of burned pear smoke still hung in the morning air as the three trapped demons shifted nervously within Ferra's containment ring.
Across the cracked flagstones, Lucan stood motionless, his fingers tracing the outline of the sealed parchment roll tucked beneath his leather vest.
It was an official imperial audit report, stamped with the crimson seal of the underworld ministry and containing thirty years of falsified frontier surveillance.
Cessy watched him from the clinic steps, her freshly bandaged forearm resting securely against the blanket Ash provided.
"You have carried that roll through thirty winters, big brother," she called out, her voice calm and devoid of pressure.
"Every night on the perimeter, you checked the string to make sure the ministry seal remained intact."
"A scout learns to keep his retreat path greased," the veteran replied, pulling the thick parchment roll from his vest into the pale sunlight.
