The torque inside Noll Vey’s core felt like an iron capstan turning against wet sinew.
Every timber in the Hall of Witness vibrated with the strain. Through stone shins ground flat against the flagstones of the witness ring, Noll felt the shudder of the custodial freeze. Above him, Tessa Dene kept both scarred hands slammed flat against the red-chalked witness rail, knuckles white. The custodial token—the disc of river shale Noll had placed in her palm before the hearing opened—sat pinned under her calloused skin, glowing with dull amber heat that smelled of scorched silt.
Between Tessa’s grip above and the subterranean pull below, Noll’s blue claim-core was caught in an iron vise. The internal red collar seal that Lord Auditor Orin Vane had wired into the foundation channels was split fifty percent across, spitting hot sparks into his thoughts.
“Keep your weight over it, Tessa,” Noll rasped, voice scraping like gravel in a hopper. “Don’t lean back. If you give an inch to the torque, the royal seat will suck the whole freeze down the flue.”
“I am not giving an inch,” Tessa said, teeth clenched tight. Her voice had the flat ring of the Dene family workshop. “You told the hall to lock the books. I have the keys on the rail. Nobody spends a brass bit until the cellar is clear.”
