To Lady Signe Lorr, the subterranean chamber did not smell of mystery or miracle.
It smelled of the Ministry of Boundaries in the third winter of the southern rebellion—an unholy mixture of cold nitric acid, heated brass foil, and the dry, suffocating dust of parchment records being shredded by royal commissioners before the provincial gates fell.
Signe adjusted her grip on her iron-shod staff of assize, feeling the cold iron sleeve of its lower ferrule bite through the palm of her wool glove. Her dark wool traveling coat was buttoned tight to her chin against the subterranean draft, but beneath the cloth, her heart beat with the cold, measured rhythm of a clerk cross-referencing an execution roll.
Before her, the two men stood like figures frozen in an uncompleted cathedral fresco.
Jon Hale remained two paces to the left of the basalt plinth, his ruined right arm pinned inside its greasy linen sling, his left hand resting flat against the rough granite wall to keep his balance. His face was gray with exhaustion and soot, but his eyes were fixed on the knight with the immovable, stubborn authority of a magistrate who had already closed the courthouse doors.
Beside the pedestal, Sir Cael Ardent knelt on one knee in the white frost, his forehead still pressed against the beveled bronze housing of the quartz plate. His fingers clawed at the stone joints of the pedestal, the links of his rusted mail clinking faintly with every ragged sob that shook his…
