The green wax cylinder rested on the walnut desk between Lord Auditor Orin Vane’s slender hands like an unexploded shell.
With deliberate care, Vane broke the braided gold wire with a small pair of silver shears. The wax cracked cleanly, releasing a faint whiff of winter pine resin and bitter almond that drifted even through the alchemical filter of the mirror. From the leather sheath, Vane drew a heavy roll of thick parchment, edged in crimson ribbon and stamped at three-inch intervals with the Great Privy Seal of King Alden.
“You speak of three hundred and twelve delegates,” Vane said, unrolling the document with practiced ease until its stiff lower margin tapped against the desk edge. “You speak of a civic reckoning, Master Vey, as if your little amphitheater in the rock were an independent parliament. You forget where you stand. You are in the Duchy of Orren, on Crown lands held under military easement since the third year of the Hill Wars. You operate solely within the shadow of sovereign grace.”
Noll did not shift his stance. “The Hall of Witness was carved into this mountain two hundred years before your king’s grandfather bought his first crown with silver bonds from the southern banking houses.”
