“The wording is traditional.”
“That is not an answer.”
Corvek’s mouth thinned. “Deviation from prescribed response may constitute failure.”
Lucien stepped closer to the desk.
“May,” he said. “Not must.”
Corvek looked at him.
Lucien did not blink.
Sabine saw then what he had done in those thirty-seven minutes.
He had not saved her from the trial.
He had forced the trial into a room with witnesses.
The difference mattered.
It might kill her anyway.
But it mattered.
“When?” Sabine asked.
“Now,” Ilyra said.
The word landed soft and final.
Lysa crossed to Sabine immediately. “Then she changes. That gown was for the final sequence, not underground rites.”
“No time,” Corvek said.
Lysa turned on him. “There is always time to stop a woman looking like she was dragged through three courts and a poisoning before asking her to kneel in front of relics.”
For one dangerous second, no one moved.
Then Ilyra said, “Five minutes.”
Corvek looked as if he had swallowed wire.
Lysa took Sabine by the elbow and pulled her behind the dressing screen.
The new gown was simpler.
Black wool over white linen. No indigo. No silver throat clasp. Lysa stripped away the ceremonial excess with handsthat moved faster than thought, muttering under her breath the whole time.
“This is a trap.”
“Yes.”
“They will make you kneel.”
“Yes.”
“They will make refusal look like pride.”
