The weight of the Old Royal Seat bore down through the floorboards like an anvil suspended by rotting hemp.
Kneeling on his stone shins at the witness rail above, Noll Vey kept his single stone palm pressed against the river-shale custodial token beneath Tessa Dene’s hands. The torque running through his claim-core had slowed, but its bite had deepened into a steady suction, dragging his Dominion strength down into the foundation conduits as Collar Anchor Three attempted to harvest his core.
Through the acoustic flues and the open floor grating at the center of the ring, every scrape of bone and parchment in the vault rose into the vaulted ceiling with pristine clarity.
Beside Noll, Lady Serit leaned over the rail, her silver Survey spectacles catching the cold light from below. Cale stood at her shoulder, arms laden with three heavy calfskin registers from the Survey House cart. His fingers moved across the index tabs, verifying serial numbers and tax endorsements as fast as voices echoed from the dark.
“The acoustic flues are open, Lady Serit,” Cale murmured. “Every word spoken against the plinth is registering across the tiers. The hall is logging the entries as direct testimony.”
“Keep the cross-references ready, Cale,” Lady Serit instructed, her aristocratic features set in cold administrative fury. “Lord Auditor Vane spent forty years convincing the province that core collapses were acts of natural decay. If Prit has the original acquisition receipts, the crown’s title dissolves.”
