Inside the keep, the laughter dwindled to echoes. He moved through corridors lit only by moon-cold sconces, breath fogging a little—stone always captured night. The ajar door, the candle's fluttering silhouette, felt intimate, expectant.
Arielle's opening declaration might have been rehearsed on the march from her tower; the quaver in her voice suggested otherwise. Josephine's empty pouch hitting the desk felt louder than the drum circle earlier—an indictment. Wilhelmina's threat, quiet and deadly, completed the tribunal.
The severity pricked him sober. He almost tried to explain the treasury process: the crown's auditors, the shipping delay, the war's cost. But he read fatigue in their shoulders, understood that explanation was not remedy. So he offered the vault—quiet, low-voiced, aware of how much that concession exposed.
