Dawn fog clung to the basalt flags of the Nine-Cauldron Guild terrace, smelling of wet slate.
Two hundred alchemists in turquoise robes packed the tiered benches, murmuring as they watched the center platform. Rumors had spread through every tea house in Red-River City before midnight.
At the center of the platform sat an empty stone hearth surrounded by four iron inspection pillars.
Deacon Sallow stood beside the hearth in formal crimson audit robes, arms folded and sneering beneath his mustache. Beside him rested the public wager: an open chest of one thousand Low-Grade Spirit Stones glowing pale blue, and an ivory tray bearing two hundred polished Cauldron Marks.
Baron Derrick Vance leaned over the stone balustrade, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the empty floor.
He had watched Kaelen unleash that monstrous burst at the cinnabar mine two mornings ago. Nobody survived that kind of dantian recoil without spending seven days in bed. Derrick had told Orson as much, and Orson had staked one thousand stones on his word.
“The sun touches the eastern watchtower,” Sallow announced, his voice amplified by a sound-guiding talisman. “If Apprentice Kaelen Vance does not present himself within fifty breaths, his badge is void.”
“Hold your tongue, Sallow,” an old voice shouted from the terrace steps.
