Page 102 of Given to the Black King

My title is wrong twice. Torgan’s title creates a king of a country that does not exist. The witness line sits above the vows and voids the instrument under Serathi law.

Callas turns the first page. Then the second.

“Correct it,” he tells Perr.

Perr swallows. “A lawful copy requires a new engrossment, fresh witnesses, and both delegation seals. The wax allocation is already entered against the treaty.”

“Then we postpone ratification.”

“No,” I say.

Callas looks at me.

“As accredited envoy and chief drafter, I certify the treaty complete. You may carry an unsigned annex south and explain why you tried to add it after agreement.”

“You do not command this delegation.”

“I command my signature.” I put my hand over the sealed treaty. “And he commands his.”

Torgan’s claw settles beside mine without touching the paper. “The peace stands. The annex does not.”

Callas looks around the table for an ally. He finds Ghenn watching the doors, Vess smiling without warmth, and Perr with ink on two fingers and terror held rigid behind his eyes.

He puts the annex back into the case.

Only then does the pressure beneath my ribs ease. Not triumph. Space enough for one full breath.

Perr lets out the same breath beside me, much louder.

“Sorry,” he says. “I have been holding that since breakfast.”

Ghenn laughs, and the room begins to move again.

Servants bring wine. Callas begins discussing departure. Torgan does not join the conversation.

He comes around the table.

Every person in the room notices.

He stops behind my chair and puts one hand on the back. His fingers are bare. Claws hidden.

“Stand,” he says.

My body remembers the orchard court.

I stand.

His hand closes around the back of my neck. Not hard. Not private either.

He bends and presses his mouth to the bite on my shoulder.

A low sound moves through the black-country delegation. Fists touch breastplates in acknowledgment.

Torgan lifts his head.

“You signed,” he says.

“So did you.”