On the ninth morning after the northern battle, seven riders wearing the pale silver-stitched cloaks of the Aperture Court’s inner council trotted up the valley road and reined in their horses before the open timber gate of the lower shepherd’s hospice. At their head rode Senior Arbiter Venn. A tall, smooth-chinned Jade official from the country capital who had never set a boot on the northern ridge. Meanwhile, the pale blades were falling—flanked by two council scribes and four armored recovery escorts.
Swinging down from his saddle, Arbiter Venn tapped a leather scroll-tube bearing the inner council’s red wax seal against his glove and glanced with distaste at the crowded courtyard.
“Mistress Soran,” Venn called out. He stepped toward the porch stairs as if assuming the hospice study had already been cleared for him. “I carry sealed office warrants from the inner council concerning the recent northern seal disaster. Have your stewards clear a private room inside and bring Chief Judge Vaska Ren before me at once.”
Hall Mistress Soran didn’t move toward the porch door. She stood squarely in the center of the open gravel practice yard behind a single bare stone table, the butt of her bent plain iron spear grounded beside her right boot.
