Magistrate Kaelen’s face shifted from panic to an oily, terrifying calm in the space of a single heartbeat.
He raised both hands palm-outward, his ivory baton held horizontally across his chest. He stepped down from the gold-trimmed carriage onto the barricade low roof wall with an expression of performative humility.
“Hold your hands, men!” Kaelen called out, his voice smooth, soothing, dramatic. “There’s no need for bloodshed among brothers of Khorat! If the audit is authentic, then the council’s decree has been misunderstood! Scribe Vale! Master Clerk! Bring the rolls forward! Let’s inspect the seals together at the side wicket-gate! If the permits are voided, the guard post will divide the grain wagons with the civilian column!”
The young sergeant lowered his sword by an inch, frowning with uncertainty.
On the avenue, Master Corin took a step forward, his broad face relaxing. “A parlay? If we can get through the wicket without an assault—”
“No!” Ren-the-Cinder’s voice tore through the rain from the row of stone pillars behind them, a scream of pure, pure animal terror.
The Coward burst from the bushes, his leathers soaked in mud, his face white as bone. He threw himself flat across the red stone pavers. He clawed at Ren Vale’s boots like a drowning man.
