The great hall held them the way it held winter feasts and judgments—making everything larger than the mouth that spoke it. Technomancer envoys arrived in polished cloth and spoke courtesy that slid like oil across water. Arcane Order allies stood with shoulders that forgot to relax. Independent envoys sniffed the air like dogs near a closed door.
They asked for troops, for embargoes, for routes where soldiers could march with their boots in order. They asked again for doctrine, in different words, as if changing the word might open a cupboard. Elowen answered with small, solid sentences.
"We do not commit without sight."
"We will send arbiters."
"Food, medicine, yes."
"Metals, no."
When her voice felt like it might climb, Aelthrin leaned a fraction closer. He did not touch the table. He did not speak. She steadied. It looked like nothing. It worked like a hand at the back.
