Lucan Morvane’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. A single bead of sweat leaked from his temple, rolling over his cheek before dripping onto his lavender collar.
“Patriarch Guo,” Lucan stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the wicker basket. “You... you’re holding a weed.”
Patriarch Guo did not look down. His thumb rested firmly on the trowel handle, his knuckles whitening as his Qi surged beneath his silk sleeves.
“I am aware of what I am holding,” Guo said.
Patriarch Chen rose from his wooden bucket. His broad shoulders blocked the morning light, casting a wide shadow over Lucan’s ten alchemy deacons. His iron hands were caked in dark mud.
“Young Master Morvane,” Chen rumbled, each word vibrating in the deacons’ chest bones. “Your voice is harsh. It carries on the wind. The master inside is resting his spirit, and you are barking like an alley cur.”
Behind them, Patriarch Song did not even stand. He merely snapped a dandelion root between two fingers, flicking the green stem into his basket with a sharp whistle.
“When your grandfather ran the Morvane stalls,” Song whispered without glancing up, “he knew enough to whisper in front of his betters. It seems his grandson lacks basic manners.”
