The docket had been on his desk since third bell.
Harven Brightforge read it for the second time, not because the words had changed but because what he was about to do required a witness, and the only witness he trusted at this hour was his own certainty. The ink was two days old. The clerk's filing stamp sat in the bottom margin — neat, institutional, precisely where it belonged. And above it, in his own handwriting — the note he'd written Markday night after the arrest report arrived — a single word circled twice.
Enough.
