Panic rose in Ambrose’s chest. The potioneers around him could be responsible for half the country’s healing potions. If they actually followed Cyril’s advice, if they used Driftwoodalgae, of all things—
“Objection!” he shouted.
The applause died down. Sandon and Evie stared at him.
So did everyone else in the room.
“Objection?” the moderator repeated. Ambrose briefly considered running, out of the convention, possibly out of the Scar—but on stage, Cyril Hartsfeld still bore his smug smirk, his dangerous information hanging in the air.
No. No, he had to be corrected.
“I have an objection.” Ambrose strode up the steps and onto the stage. “I’d like to counter Mr. Hartsfeld’s claim about Driftwood algae.”
