"Now, that's not—" Magistrate Corwin started.
"I never signed anything." Delia's voice rose, cutting through his objection. "I never agreed to anything. I woke up one morning and was told I was leaving. Told I'd be serving in a noble household. Told it was already decided."
She took another step forward. The words were building in her chest, the ones she'd swallowed her whole life. Not anymore.
"Do you know when I learned the truth? On the wagon. In chains. When your guards—" she pointed at Harren, who wouldn't meet her eyes, "—discussed how workers at the 'farsite' rarely survive their terms. Howaccidents happen. How someone my size would probably owe double the years because I'd need more food."
A low sound moved through the orcs around her. Not quite a growl. A rumble. A promise of violence.
"That's—those are exaggerations," Magistrate Corwin said, but his voice had lost its smooth confidence. "Workers occasionally misunderstand the terms of their—"
"I understood perfectly." Delia's hands were shaking. She made herself not hide them. "I understood that I was cargo. That I was property. That no one cared whether I lived or died as long as the contract was fulfilled." She turned to the warchief, meeting those iron-colored eyes. "That's what Valdaran law considerslegitimate. That's what this man wants you to help him enforce."
Targesh Ironhide said nothing. But his gaze moved from Delia to the magistrate, and his expression went very, very cold.
"The contract," Magistrate Corwin said, pulling the document from his satchel again, his movements jerky now, "was signed by her mother. Under Valdaran law, family members have the authority to—"
"To sell their daughters?" The words ripped out of her. "To trade away their lives without even telling them? Without asking? Without giving them a choice?"
"It's not—that's not what—"
"That's exactly what it is." Delia's voice cracked, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Twenty-three years of silence werepouring out of her, and nothing in the world could have held them back. "My family sold me. They signed a paper that said I belonged to someone else, and they didn't even have the courage to tell me to my face. I found out fromguardswho talked about me like I was cargo. Who laughed about how I wouldn't survive."
She looked at the magistrate—really looked at him, at his fine clothes and his silver clasp and his careful neutrality that couldn't quite hide the calculation underneath.
"And you want me to honor that? You want me to call thatservice?"
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Delia felt the shift around her. The orcs were moving. Not attacking, not advancing. Just... closing ranks. A protective circle tightening around her, warriors positioning themselves between her and the human delegation without a word being spoken.
She glanced at Ralvar.
He looked like murder given form. His hand rested on his weapon, knuckles white with the force of his grip. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin. When he looked at her, fury burned in his gaze.
But he didn't move. Didn't intervene. This was her moment, and he was letting her have it.
Warchief Targesh turned to the magistrate. "Well?" The word rumbled through the courtyard. "You've heard her account. Do you dispute it?"
Magistrate Corwin's careful composure was cracking. "The circumstances of contract acquisition are—the signing party had legal authority—families have the right to—"
"A simple question, Magistrate." Targesh's voice could have frozen fire. "Did this woman consent to the contract that bears her name?"
Silence.
Harren was staring at the ground now, his weak chin tucked against his chest. The younger guard had gone pale, his earlier cruelty burned away by the weight of what was being exposed. Even they knew. Even they couldn't pretend anymore.
"Valdaran law," Magistrate Corwin finally managed, "recognizes the authority of family members to enter binding agreements on behalf of—"
"That is not what I asked." The warchief hadn't moved. Hadn't raised his voice. But the air around him seemed to darken. "Did she consent?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"No," the magistrate admitted, the word clearly costing him something. "But under our law—"
Targesh turned away from him as if he'd ceased to exist.
"Delia Harrowmere." Her name, spoken in that ancient voice, felt like a pronouncement. "What do you choose?"
