With his ears firmly sealed by two plugs of fragrant beeswax, Kaelen felt the universe contract into a sphere of pure, unhurried peace.
He rested both elbows on the wooden picnic table. He completely ignored the furious storm of golden runes swirling across the cavern.
To Kaelen’s eyes, the blinding light of Solon’s supreme domain was merely an annoying glare. It was no different than harsh morning sunlight reflecting off a pond. If you didn’t look directly at it, it couldn’t bother you.
The air within the sanctum was suffocatingly hot. It smelled of scorched bronze and molten gold. But behind him, through the shattered doorway, a cool draft from the outer corridors kept their little corner pleasant.
Kaelen reached into his small leather storage pouch. He retrieved his favorite purple clay teapot.
It was a squat, humble vessel made from dark iron-clay. Years of boiling mountain spring water had seasoned the porous stone. Beside it, he set down a small carved bamboo tea scoop, four tiny porcelain cups, and an airtight canister of dried Ashford oolong tea leaves.
High above the lake, Sovereign Solon was chanting with frantic, veins-bulging intensity.
The tyrant’s mouth opened and closed in rapid, violent rhythms. Visible shockwaves of golden alchemical truth rippled through the air. Each syllable carried enough profound insight to elevate an entire generation of scholars. Yet not a single vibration could penetrate Kaelen’s beeswax.
