The yellow flare of the horn lantern flickered as a sharp gust of river wind rattled the small casement, driving a mist of cold rain against the dark glass. On the rough pine table, the scraped vellum roll lay open beneath the two pewter weights, the golden alchemical ink of the imperial cipher gleaming with a faint, phosphor-like luminescence that pulsed in time with the deep, buried heartbeat of the Old Hill.
Sir Cael Ardent did not leave the study. He stood leaning over Lady Signe’s chair, his armored forearms braced upon the table edge, his eyes tracing the glowing lines of script with an agonizing, obsessive intensity. His breath smelled of bitter tea and stale dried beef, pluming white in the freezing room.
“It is a standard containment clause,” Cael muttered, his words tumbling out in a rapid, defensive torrent that had the desperate rhythm of a man arguing with his own shadow. “Every provincial fortress holds a sealed envelope with that exact phrasing. Section Nine of the Marcher Defense Code. It was drafted during the Third Incursion, when the border wards began to unravel along the eastern passes. It was never intended as an insult to this house.”
