Two thick hemp ropes snapped taut as Sera Thorne and Barnaby Holt hoisted the corners of the canvas hammock.
Sera held the front support poles with both hands, Storm-Pike slung diagonally across her back. Barnaby took the rear beams with his single arm, balancing the weight with practiced ease.
Between them, Kaelen Vance lay bundled in his thick wool blanket.
His straw hat remained tilted over his nose. A clay flask of warm roasted barley tea was tucked securely beneath his elbow.
The morning sun cast long golden shadows across the stone pavers of Central Plaza.
Five thousand spectators packed the broad square from the river docks to the temple steps. Cultivators from twenty martial sects, visiting merchant princes, and local townsfolk pushed against the iron railings.
Murmurs rippled through the sea of onlookers as the small procession entered the cordoned arena.
“Is that him?” an elder whispered. “Is that Master Ash’s representative?”
