The plaza grew thirty degrees colder in ten heartbeats. The blood beside Ling Feiyu’s boots stopped spreading. Pale frost grew along its edges and cracked in the wind.
Yan knelt with his head nearly touching the stone.
“Greetings, Senior Brother Ling. We grounded the left obelisk and got them across. The right one is still live. We have thirty-eight laborers left.”
Ling examined the crossing.
“You took almost twice as long as I gave you to clear fifty paces. The Azure Cloud elders are already on the eastern crags. If they reach the Great Hall before our flags are up, you can forget your quarterly spirit stones.”
Yan’s mouth opened, then shut.
Ling looked at the thirty-eight rogues. Wet coats had frozen stiff. Several people had blue lips. Pei Jing sat with his head down and one thumb on the Black Mountain Whetstone. The Chaos Root kept his joints warm. He let his skin cool so he looked as miserable as the others.
Two rows in front of him, a middle-aged man fell to his knees and crawled toward Ling.
