The kitchen clock chimed three bells after midnight. A low, bronze chime that rang through the quiet storehouse back kitchen. Outside, the night was at its darkest, the river fog drifting up through the floorboards in thin, cold ribbons that were quickly dissolved by the warmth of the peat hearth.
Auditor Varo Nenn unrolled the fourth sheet of Dutch rag paper, smoothing the stiff linen fibers with the wooden handle of his blotter. On the margin of his working notebook, he had drawn two small diagrams. On the left, a traditional academy summoning circle surrounded by forcing glyphs. On the right, a simple schedule grid showing twenty-four hours divided into three shifts, with a thirty-minute shaded block in the center marked Meal Interval.
“We come to Article Four,” Nenn said, his quill poised. “The clause that gives this entire enterprise its strange character. The Meal Break Verification Clause. When Councilor Vesk reads this to the Senate tomorrow, half the patrician aldermen will think it’s an elaborate guild jest. They will ask why an emergency defense workshop can only operate while its specialists are eating their midday sandwiches.”
Pella Rook smiled—a tired, genuine smile that reached her eyes. She picked up a piece of dry sea biscuit from the table, breaking it in half with a crisp snap.
