The morning sun came through the high clerestory slits in long, pale shafts that smelled of melting snow and drying pine needles.
Through his copper speaking tube, Noll heard the rhythmic, dignified step of Lady Serit climbing the gallery stairs. The royal envoy did not rush; she walked with the measured, deliberate pace of a woman who carried the King’s Great Seal in an iron coffer and had spent thirty years watching territorial dukes try to out-stare royal warrants.
Behind her came the familiar scuffle of Prit’s bone feet, accompanied by the lighter, hesitant tread of Cale and the solid, heavy work-boots of Tessa Dene.
A chair scraped across the flagstones beneath the wall socket.
“Master Vey,” Lady Serit’s voice entered the copper tube. It was crisp, educated, and carried the quiet, unforced authority of the Old Royal Seat, yet beneath the formal cadence lay the genuine weariness of an envoy who had spent three weeks untangling an administrative nightmare. “The commission has concluded its deliberations. The court rendered its judgment at eleven of the clock in the presence of the town council, the regimental officers, and the civilian witnesses.”
Noll gathered his will and clicked his white chalk grain once against the granite ledge.
