Kaelen looked down at the kneeling elder and gently rotated his teacup.
The silence across the Founder Stele Plaza stretched so long that several birds returned to the cedar branches overlooking the bleachers. Two thousand disciples stood motionless, their breath catching in their throats as they waited for Kaelen to answer.
“Elder Sterling,” Kaelen said mildly. “Please stand up. The flagstones here are unheated, and kneeling on cold granite causes chronic stiffness in the patellar tendons.”
Sterling blinked through his tears, slowly rising to his feet. His hands still trembled as he held the silver-bound sword plaque, his gaze filled with solemn reverence.
Across the rubble of the shattered balustrade, Dean’s halberdiers dragged Senior Disciple Vayne out of the collapsed timber wall. The former senior disciple groaned feebly, his ribs bound in splints and his dantian locked by iron suppression pins.
The grand elder of the Dean’s retinue waved his hand in dismissive disgust. “Take the traitor to the southern gate. Strip his academy robes and cast him beyond the mountain border. If he ever sets foot within the capital again, sever his hamstrings.”
Two guards dragged Vayne away through the gravel. The disgraced scion did not even have the strength to curse, his chin dragging limp in the dirt.
