A single cinder drifted down from the darkening heavens, landing with a faint sizzle inside Kaelen Vance’s teacup.
The crimson projection of Inquisitor Thorne-Crow and the Three Ancestors had faded into the night. Across the bay of Void Lotus Isle, sixty thousand allied soldiers stood in silence.
Barnaby Holt gripped a smoking scroll of beaten gold leaf that had dropped from the messenger hawk. His sleeve fluttered in the damp sea breeze, his wooden ladle knocking against his belt.
“Look at this madness, young master,” Barnaby said, holding the scorched parchment toward the lantern light. “It is a formal blood-pact. The Three Sanctuaries have staked their ancestral Tier 8 Star-Iron Cauldron and one hundred and fifty thousand Sovereign Jade Cores.”
Linnea hurried onto the cedar porch, her face pale. She carried a basket of dried moon-grass, her fingers trembling against the woven willow handle.
“The contest begins seventy-two hours after the proclamation,” Linnea said, her voice tight. “The contest itself lasts another seventy-two hours on Crater Island. If Master Ash does not step onto Platform Seven, fifty mainland grandmasters will burn in magma.”
Kaelen fished the damp cinder out of his jasmine tea with the tip of a toothpick. He flicked it over the rail and took a slow sip.
