A thick woven bamboo screen rattled as Barnaby Holt drove two wooden stakes into the dirt beside the carp pond.
Kaelen sat on a three-legged cedar stool fifteen feet away. He held a peeled willow pole over the dark water, its hemp string dangling an unbaited iron hook two inches above the surface.
From behind the double-layered bamboo screen, the heavy oak doors of the side training hall thudded shut.
Iron latch bolts slid into their bronze brackets with three heavy clunks. A moment later, the low, steady hum of the courtyard bath array surged beneath the flagstones, sealing the chamber in a protective dome of circulating warmth.
Watching someone break through a cultivation bottleneck is a first-class Dao biohazard, Kaelen thought, shifting his shoulders against the cedar trunk. If I accidentally observe her gale-vein resonance, my mind might comprehend her wind technique and reset my Track 3 alchemy streak to zero. Worse, if she fails, someone expects me to fetch a towel.
Kaelen rested his elbow on his knee, his eyes fixed on the empty iron hook.
“Uncle Barnaby,” Kaelen called out mildly. “Move that second screen three inches to the left. If a stray gale-needle flies through the crack, it will tear my sleeve.”
