The afternoon session of the King’s Bench convened under a sky that had cleared to pale autumn blue, the cold northern wind chasing away the river mist and leaving the limestone towers of Crown-Reach sharp as carved ivory against the horizon. Inside the Great Hall, every lantern had been put out. The natural daylight poured through the tall high window row lancets, lighting up the long central aisle that ran eighty paces from the petitioner’s bar to the main oak entrance doors.
Tomas Reed stood at the head of the aisle. He was flanked by Scribe Nessa Vale and apprentice Olla. Between them on a low rolling timber dolly rested Exhibit Fifty. A massive metal tube of raw, unwhitened sheepskin thick parchment, two feet in width and six feet wide. It was bound with four braided ropes of green hemp and secured with thirty-eight wax seals representing every closed docket of the Last Claim.
Tomas took a slow breath, adjusting his left wrist brace. His left forearm felt the weight of the moment. Not as an ache, but as a deep, load-bearing steadiness that anchored his balance. He worked his fingers through five slow cycles against the palm of his hand. He felt the hardened scar tissue yield to the pull of his tendons. For five years, this roll had been carried in sections across mountain passes, tucked into waterproof oilskin sacks, passed from hand to hand across kitchen tables, forge anvils, and canal locks. Scribe Nessa Vale had spent…
