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“A servant’s claim.”

“A Miou captain’s sworn testimony,” Joran corrects.

Varrus turns on him. “You forget your caste.”

“I remember my oath.”

Joran’s answer strikes through the chamber with more force than a shout. The royal soldiers know what a house oath means. Their hands stay near their swords, but the line no longer advances.

The captain studies Rhysandir. My husband’s black eyes remain open. His body lies utterly still. Faint shadows tremble near his right hand and vanish, proof that his chaos magic cannot answer him.

“My lord,” the captain says, “if you understand this invocation, blink once.”

Rhysandir’s eyelids close and open.

The movement is slow but deliberate.

“If Lady Morwen’thir serves as your recognized healer, blink again.”

He does.

Relief tries to weaken my knees. I lock them.

The captain lowers his raised hand. “The incapacity is witnessed.”

He removes his right gauntlet and presses two bare fingers against the Arbiter’s device on his breastplate. The gesture is brief, but every soldier in the chamber recognizes it. He is acknowledging that the invocation reaches beyond noble privilege into religious oath.

“The healer’s standing is witnessed,” he says. “The outside force will refrain from seizure while I determine whether the remaining conditions bind this command.”

Varrus advances one step. “You have determined nothing.”

“I have kept my soldiers from violating a sacred protection while you argue against its existence.”

“And the attempted murder is witnessed,” Varrus snaps. “The poison sits open before you. Her bloodied hands prepared it.”

“My bloodied hands are keeping him alive.”

“You admit applying the numiscu.”

“I applied medicine made from a plant sold to me as rirzed. The disguise deceived my checks. That is not a confession. It is the method used to place both of us in this room at the moment you arrived.”

Varrus’s gaze narrows. “Take care, human.”

“Lady Morwen’thir,” Joran says.

“Her title will die with the lord she poisoned.”

Anger surges through me, hot enough to threaten judgment. I press my wet fingers against my palm. Rhysandir needs cool air, clean fylvek, and time. Every breath spent answering Varrus costs him something.

“Captain,” I say, “your religious obligation is clear. Withdraw your soldiers from the private chambers and inner keep. You may preserve your watch beyond the inner gates while the clause remains active. You may send notice to Orthani. You may request an Arbiter-sanctioned examiner. You may not arrest me, remove Rhysandir, or claim authority here.”

The captain glances at the sigil carved above the chamber hearth. The same opposing forms mark the stone, older than the current royal dynasty.

“The clause cannot erase a royal warrant,” he says.

“It suspends execution while the named conditions continue.”

“For how long?”