The city did not sleep that night. Lamps burned late; shutters stayed closed; whispers traveled the streets faster than any courier could manage. Where morning had been bright and expectant, the next dawn rose with a thin, brittle edge: the square's joy folded over into suspicion, and suspicion set its teeth.
Princess Lily's tour was postponed.
King MacLinny's carriage still rolled through corridors of state, but it did not leave the palace. The king convened an emergency state council in the council chamber — a high, echoing room papered with state maps and the portraits of predecessors who had never anticipated being so publicly endangered by a single, pretty orb.
Commander Orsic did not hide his pleasure at the attention. He came into the council with the sort of exactness only a man who measures his victories could have: armor gleaming, posture rigid, words precise.
"We will not compromise with the princess's or the kingdom's safety." he announced, and the room crystallised around the statement.
"The people were in danger," Orsic continued, looking directly at the Prime Minister's advisors more than at the king. "The immediate restraint and arrest were according to protocol. We contained the risk before it became a hazard. I will continue supporting the crown in every capacity."
The king, who had been quiet and weathered since the blessing of Eloin, allowed a thin smile to cross his face — one that looked made of gratitude and old grief.
"Good," he said slowly. "We will postpone the tour. We will tighten our security. I expect a full report."
One of the ministers glanced toward Orsic and then away. The tremor of the crowd's fear had begun to solidify into a political instrument.
"Notify the governors," the prime minister said. "And make certain the royal family is seen to be safe — visible, yet protected."
The meeting dispatched orders like a net: additional K.P.P patrols at all city thoroughfares, curfews for vulnerable quarters, inspection warrants for unusual packages, and — most importantly for the kingdom's image — public statements on the safety of the throne. Orsic's voice found the right places to echo. He was tireless at the podium that day.
Meanwhile, in the less ornate, much colder rooms of the Postknight Hall, Caldemount branch, the aftermath arrived like a slow, smothering fog.
They had been called in, not for assistance in investigation but for questioning.
Solis, Ada, Almond and even Seraphine sat in a row of austere chairs under the watch of two K.P.P. officers — large men in dark uniforms, their badges sharp, eyes sharper. The interrogation room smelled like pine and tannin and official dread. A single lamp threw long bars of light across the table.
"You will answer plainly," one of the officers said. "Where were you when the delivery was made? What was your relation to Postknighr Razille? Why did a Postknight uniformed courier reach the princess without being scrutinized?"
Solis's reply was even, because some things were built of steadier stuff than fury. "We were at the square. I saw her. She looked like she meant no harm."
Ada was blunt, hot with indignation. "There was no reason to suspect that little ball. You saw it — it was silent. It didn't do anything. And you dragged her off like some common criminal." Her voice went hard, sharp-edged. "You arrest a woman without proof, without asking — what does that make you?"
The officer's eyes were unforgiving. "We act for the safety of the crown. If you wish to question us, take it up with your commander."
Seraphine's hands were folded in her lap; though she answered the officers politely, there was a cool tension in her voice. "Procedure. A threat was identified. We will give you 100% cooperation. But I may ask you — for the sake of justice — ensure proper process. The Postknights have always been loyal to crown. There must be more to this. We can never betray."
Almond, who until the square had preened like a rooster, had been reduced to a brittle mask. He spoke too much, too fast, then less. "We… we were there. I was paraded near the front. I saw Razille. I did not see the ball until it fell. I—" His voice failed under the weight of accusation.
The K.P.P. note-taker scribbled with mechanical calm. All of it — answers, reactions, protests, awkward silences — were archived. The interviews were polite enough to be official, curt enough to be pointed. Each statement would be compared, cross-checked, spun into dossiers.
Word that Postknights had been implicated spread faster than rumors of the king's cancelled tour. Taverns that had sung of their deeds now muttered caution. Merchants who had once preferred Postknight escorts reconsidered contracts. The Postknight banner — the emblem many had once meant as guarantee — had started to become an emblem of risk in conversations.
By midday, Commander Cassandra had assembled what remained of the Postknight leadership in the hall's main chamber. The room, usually bright with business and the hum of regimented activity, had folded inward with worry. Cassandra stood at the head of the table — war-worn, principled, and brittle with tension.
"This is a disaster," she said bluntly. "People trust us because we are consistent. If that trust fractures—if the town sees a Postknight as a threat—then we lose far more than face. We lose our mission."
Captain Colins, her brother — broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed — leaned forward. His face, usually calm in the face of trouble, was made of a focus that had carried countless investigations. "We need to know what happened. If Razille brought that orb intentionally, we'll need answers that go beyond gossip. If she didn't… then who put it on her path?"
Cassandra folded her hands. "I want this handled quietly. For now, the public statement must be cautious. We will cooperate with the K.P.P., but I will not let us be railroaded into silence and shame. We will investigate when the K.P.P. interviews are over."
"Let me go," Colins said. "I'll need Bronn with me. He's steady and knows the streets where Razille moved before. Selvine is still out on that assignment in Verdon Ridge. I want to bring her in if she's back soon, but until then — Bronn is enough."
A murmur rippled the room. Bronn — young, competent — had already been on several scouting missions and had a reputation for a stubborn sort of resourcefulness. Cassandra nodded. "You'll have access to archives, to Razille's file, to K.P.P. logs of the day. But you will not launch anything public. You work with discretion and report to me directly."
Colins's eyes flicked to his sister. "Understood."
Cassandra's jaw hardened. "If this is a smear — then it was placed with intent. Someone wants Postknights to be vulnerable."