Thirty iron mallets struck thirty bronze war-gongs at the exact same instant.
After twenty hours of slow, taunting marches across the five-mile outer perimeter, the gong-bearers had finally reached the lower grotto steps. The concussive brass screech tore through the quiet ravine like a physical wave, raining dry pine needles from the branches.
Envoy Varga stood beside the gong-bearers, his bandaged hands cupped around his mouth.
“Ring the gongs,” Varga shrieked with venomous delight. “Let us see Master Ash refine his precious pills through this din.”
On the porch of Cold-Spring Grotto, Kaelen Vance lay motionless in his canvas hammock.
The sonic shockwave rattled the low cedar stool beside him, making his teacup chatter against its saucer.
Sera Thorne stepped through the grotto doorway, holding a small leather notebook and a sharpened stick of charcoal.
“Noise violation under academy bylaw fourteen,” Sera said, her voice flat despite the din. “Five hundred stones for disturbing private cultivation. Another two hundred for scaring the songbirds.”
