Kaelen Vance reached out with the slender green tip of his bamboo fishing rod and tapped Barnaby Holt’s white knuckles where the seasoned hickory ladle creaked softly under the old man’s grip.
“Ease up on the ladle, Elder,” Kaelen murmured, keeping his voice beneath the roar of the arena. “Good wood is hard to find in the city, and if you snap the bowl, you’ll have to eat your scallion soup with a flat shingle.”
Barnaby let out a slow, trembling breath through his teeth.
The venom in Orson’s transmitted whisper had chilled the blood in his neck, but Kaelen’s dry remark pulled him back to the stone floor. He forced his fingers to uncurl, tucking the ladle back into his leather belt.
“The bastard hasn’t changed a bit,” Barnaby muttered, his voice rough as gravel. “Still whispering threats in the dark.”
“Let him whisper,” Kaelen said, slinging his basket over his shoulder. “Talking is free, while moving stone costs silver.”
Across the arena, the brass trumpets of the Nine-Cauldron Guild blared three sharp notes, announcing the start of the formal awards ceremony.
Vice-President Harlan stood at the center of the grand dais, surrounded by eight senior proctors in ceremonial silver robes. The old master gestured with his wooden cane, signaling for Candidate Vance to approach the podium.
