The silver tip of Lady Signe Lorr’s pointer moved across the tight, angular columns of rag parchment like a surgeon’s probe tracing a gangrenous seam through healthy tissue. Beside her at the oak vestry table, Sister Oda’s reed pen scratched in crisp, unhurried strokes across the linen witness sheet, copying every decoded phrase into the permanent archive of St. Jude, while Jon Hale stood with his scarred palms braced on the table edge, watching the machine that had eaten ten of his lifetimes lay out its own accounting books.
“Header classification: Standing Catastrophe Order — Series Forty-Four, Valley Anchor Harth,” Signe read aloud, her diction clipped and icy as if she were reading an indictment before the full bench of the High Assize. “Issued under joint warrant of the Lord High Chancellor and the First War Chamber, countersigned by the Judicial Overseer’s Office. Addressed to Special Provost Warden Brecht, commanding the Sixth Detachment of the Royal Oath Guard, with secondary copy to Travelling Magistrate Signe Lorr upon verification of local ward integrity.”
Signe paused at the end of the preamble, her silver pointer tapping the date-code stamped into the upper right corner of the parchment.
“Look at the registry date, Master Hale,” Signe said, lifting her eyes to Jon’s face. “This standing order was not drafted yesterday in response to my broken ward-signal in the chapel. The registry stamp is dated the fourth day of Harvest Month—seven months before Sir Cael Ardent ever rode into this valley, and seven months…
