Signe Lorr did not wait for the broadsword to fall.
Her dark wool robes were torn at the left hem where an oath guard’s partisan had caught the fabric on the stairwell, and white plaster dust was caked across the dark blue velvet of her sleeves like coarse salt. But as she stepped past the shattered oak balustrade of the communion rail into the center aisle, her spine was as straight and unyielding as the imperial granite pillars of the High Assize in the capital.
She positioned her body directly between the naked steel of Cael’s broadsword and Jon Hale’s breastbone.
“Lower that weapon, Sir Cael,” Signe commanded.
Her voice did not shake. It held the cold, rhythmic cadence of a senior jurist delivering a capital verdict from the high bench of the provincial curia. In the confined stone vault of St. Jude, the words carried a crisp, lawful authority that made the soot-stained knight blink, his bloodshot eyes wavering as he stared down into her impassive face.
“Stand aside, woman,” Cael snarled, the tip of his blade trembling six inches from the lace of her white coif. “This does not concern the High Assize. This is a matter of martial security, defensive protocol, and sovereign survival.”
