Envoy Varga dropped the wooden hoe into the thistle bed with a clatter.
Twenty minutes of dragging iron through mountain soil had already ruined his emerald silk tunic. His fingers were swollen, his oiled beard was dusty, and blisters covered both palms.
Across the terrace, Kaelen Vance dipped a biscuit into warm barley tea while his sixty-minute 241x Track 3 Burst Window from the cauldron batch hummed quietly behind his eyes.
“You missed six burdocks along the ditch, Envoy Varga,” Kaelen said, his voice mild. “A proper cabbage patch requires discipline.”
Varga glared, his bloodshot eyes full of exhaustion. Before the proud envoy could speak, the chime of a bronze messenger talisman cut through the mist.
Elder Sterling strode around the wisteria arbor, his heavy iron broadsword thumping against his thigh. He held a crimson silk scroll stamped with the triple-leaf wax seal of the White-Lotus inner court.
“Grand Rector summoned you to the Founder’s Sword Pavilion, boy,” Sterling barked, squinting at Kaelen’s faded bathrobe. “The Hundred-Sect Pill Auction starts in four days. The inner council is finalizing security, and they want Master Ash’s representative in the hall.”
Kaelen set his teacup down. “Tell the Grand Rector I have seasonal tendon rot. Walking uphill clogs my marrow.”
