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“You are human.”

“The clause names the recognized healer. It places no race above or beneath that office while the lord’s life remains in danger.”

I pray my memory is exact.

The captain knows the provision. I see it in the care that replaces contempt on his face.

The charter binds the inner keep against outside seizure whenever its lord cannot defend his own authority and a recognized healer remains responsible for his life.

The clause names the office rather than a caste. As Morwen’thir’s recognized healer, its protection reaches me.

Rhysandir found the opening. Now I must make armed nobles honor it.

“State your claim,” he says.

“Lord Morwen’thir is incapacitated within his stronghold. He remains conscious, but he cannot speak or exercise physical command. He is under the immediate care of the recognized healer of this house.”

“You name yourself?”

“The household records name me. So does Lord Morwen’thir’s seal on the solarium dispensary order.”

Joran speaks from the doorway. “I witnessed that order. Lady Morwen’thir holds charge of treatment within this keep.”

The captain looks over his shoulder. “You affirm her standing?”

“Before the Arbiter and under my oath to this house.”

There is no reluctance in him. No pause offered to my humanity. Joran gives the law what it demands and gives me the authority Rhysandir cannot voice.

I continue before Varrus can pull the exchange elsewhere.

“The Arbiter’s Clause suspends outside arrest within the inner keep while the ruling lord is incapacitated under a recognized healer’s care. It also forbids the seizure or transfer of house authority until the lord recovers enough to command, or an Arbiter-sanctioned judgment establishes lawful succession.”

The captain’s mouth hardens.

“That clause protects a house from invasion,” Varrus says. “It was never meant to shelter an assassin.”

“It shelters the balance of authority while the truth cannot be judged,” I reply. “If you remove his healer while he lies poisoned, you may cause his death. If you seize his household while he cannot answer, you turn incapacity into conquest. The clause forbids both.”

Varrus steps nearer. “You expect the King’s Guard to accept instruction from a Lowtown herb woman?”

“I expect the captain to honor a law consecrated by the Arbiter.”

The captain’s eyes flash toward Varrus. There it is. Not sympathy. Not support for me. Fear of the religious weight attached to the charter.

Dark elf law offers little mercy to humans. It grants even less forgiveness to those who violate a balance sworn before their patrons. A captain might survive disobedience to a noble if the king protects him. Profaning an Arbiter-sanctioned clause would stain his oath beyond any king’s easy pardon.

“The clause requires proof of incapacity and recognized care,” he says.

I move aside enough for him to see Rhysandir without allowing a path to the chaise. “He cannot move. His breathing is shallow. Numiscu obstructs his magic. I have removed the salve from the wound and begun measures to slow the poison.”

“Can he signal assent?”

“He sent me to the clause.”

Varrus’s face turns cruelly amused. “How convenient that the paralyzed lord grants his human bride exactly the power she requires.”

“Their connection is known within the house,” Joran says.