Luo began to escort Zhao toward the courtyard. Wei walked beside the elder, one hand near his sleeve. The guards’ weapons remained on the stones, and the candidates held back behind the line. Yan stood by the treatment bench while Qinghe checked that the shoulder wrap had not slipped.
“Keep your arm down,” she said. “The skin is raw beneath the cloth.”
“I can walk.”
“You can walk without swinging that arm.”
He tucked his elbow close. His ribs still hurt when he breathed deeply, but standing felt good. The strength from the chosen art filled his arms and legs in a clean, pleasant way. He was eager to get outside, though he knew a fast step could tug the burn.
Zhao glanced over his shoulder. “This is not finished.”
“No,” Luo replied. “The complaint has not been heard.”
They crossed the corridor toward the courtyard threshold. The air outside smelled of damp stone and ash from the kitchen stove. A messenger waited beyond the open door, speaking quietly to a candidate. Luo paused to tell the messenger that the elders had been called. Wei kept his position beside Zhao.
