Kaelen didn’t blink. He looked at the gray smudge on Elder Sterling’s thumb, then down at his dented iron brazier.
“Elder,” Kaelen murmured softly. “You’re leaning very close. Inhaling cold soot irritates the bronchial pulse and causes midday phlegm.”
An academy attendant took the iron pot for inspection before Kaelen could leave. He picked up his canvas cot and strolled past the frozen elder toward the amphitheater exit.
Behind him, the arena finally shattered into chaotic noise.
Four hundred disciples surged toward the balustrade, shouting arguments over what they had just witnessed.
In the eastern corridor, Sera Thorne stood with her arms crossed, blocking four Morvane deacons. Her boot rested firmly on a wooden chest containing the remaining bags of spirit stones.
Beside her, Lucan Morvane was being carried away on a silk litter. His eyes were rolled back, his lavender robes soaked in sweat, muttering delirious nonsense about three-ringed weeds.
Sera clicked her tongue, tapping the tip of Storm-Pike against the flagstones.
