The clerk’s pen hovered.
Serast’s mouth tightened. “Proceed.”
Sabine placed her hands on her own thighs.
Not offered.
Not extended.
Not surrendered.
Serast began.
“I surrender private will to sovereign union.”
Sabine heard the High Veyran beneath the common version. Older, uglier, more precise.
I yield the inward self to the marriage of power.
No.
She had copied enough from the foundation chapel. Learned enough from Lucien’s altered responses. Felt enough of the chamber trying to push surrender into her mouth.
She spoke in High Veyran.
Clearly.
Not the prescribed response.
Something else.
“I offer witness to sovereign union.”
The chamber shuddered.
The lantern flames bent sideways.
Serast’s face hardened.
“Lady Sabine,” he said. “Repeat the vow as given.”
“I did.”
“You altered it.”
“I corrected it.”
A sound moved through the chamber. A breath from Elara. A sharp inhale from the record clerk. Maelor’s hand moved toward the basin.
Serast’s voice dropped. “The Trial of Surrender requires surrender.”
“The founding union required witness,” Sabine said. “Not annihilation.”
Lucien’s eyes changed.
He understood first.
Not simply that she was refusing.
