The crimson banner above the VIP box fluttered once in the dead air, its gold embroidery catching the lantern light.
Nobody in the Grand Cauldron Hall moved. Even the proctors held their breath, their eyes darting between the towering figure of Branch Master Orson on the high balcony and the slouching youth in Stall 44.
Kaelen Vance adjusted the strap of his willow basket, tucking his chipped tea bowl beside his rolled blanket.
The oppressive weight radiating from the balcony felt like a damp autumn wind blowing off the river. It was heavy, cold, and thoroughly annoying to a man who wanted nothing more than to go home and eat sweet potatoes.
Cultivators spend entirely too much time glaring from high places, Kaelen thought, checking his fingernails for coal dust. If he keeps his jaw clenched like that, his molars are going to crack before dinner.
Inside his sea of consciousness, the Fallow Slate’s three tracks pulsed with clean, emerald light after four hours of armed hall lockdown while the Enforcement Hall chiselled open Kael’s office vaults.
Track 1 climbed to three hundred and fifty-six hours (357x), steady and deep. Track 2 rested at ninety-six hours (97x), holding its martial edge without a tremor. Track 3 ticked smoothly to seven hours (8x), building its multiplier from scratch while the crowd waited under guard for the audit results.
