"Bring them."
The hawk-nosed senior snapped his fingers.
A line of disciples hurried forward with jade gourds bound in silk. Stoppers yanked; pale light flew forth—pearled pupae, fresh-spun, each trembling with its own tiny current. They swarmed the basin, and the mirror of water became a field of stars.
"Rules," the broad-shouldered senior barked. "No cages, no spells that bind the body. Water arts permitted; so is footwork. If you fall into the basin, your count resets."
"Time limit?" Lucy called, tone suddenly bright, as if at an auction she'd just decided to run.
"Two incense sticks," the third senior snapped. He thrust a stick tip-first into the ice at his feet; flame caught on its own, unwavering. Another followed on the far edge of the basin.
Kent took one step onto the garden's lower stair. The basin trembled—just a quiver—and stilled, like a beast scenting a greater beast.
From the Glacial River ranks: "He's trying to scare water."
"Water doesn't scare."
