Twenty steel sabers cleared their scabbards with a synchronized, metallic rasp.
From the southern edge of the stone platform, twenty guild enforcers stepped forward. They wore heavy bronze breastplates and scarlet surcoats bearing Orson’s private serpent mark.
Their eyes burned with the manic desperation of men who knew their master was doomed.
In the front rows of the plaza, hundreds of spectators shrieked in terror. Cultivators shoved backward against the iron railings, overturning wooden benches and trampling vendor stalls in a frantic scramble to escape the stage.
“Kill that market rat,” Orson shrieked from behind his smoking furnace, pointing a trembling, ink-stained finger toward the notary table. “He stole guild property. He forged evidence to slander a Branch Master. Cut him down where he stands.”
The enforcers charged the wooden steps of the judgment pavilion.
Their heavy boots pounded against the pine stairs, aiming straight for Deacon Vane.
Deacon Vane stood beside the cedar table. His hands remained steady atop the sealed iron cylinder of Magistrate Vane-Locke, his face pale but completely composed.
