The shoulder woke him before dawn did.
Lin Tian lay still for a moment, cataloguing the damage. The Frost Serpent's fang had punched through the outer layer of his robe and into the meat below his collarbone, and whatever cold venom the creature carried had slowed the healing. His qi circulated around the wound in slow, careful loops, coaxing the tissue back together, but the flesh remained tender and the bruising had spread overnight into a dark, irregular bloom across his chest.
He pressed two fingers against it.
The ranking slab hung on the outer wall of the candidate quarters, a flat disc of pale jade mounted beside the main corridor entrance. Disciples checked it the way merchants checked ledgers—first thing, last thing, whenever anxiety demanded. Lin Tian had made a habit of walking past it without looking.
This morning he stopped.
