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Varrus enters between four royal guards. He wears formal black despite the iron restraint around one wrist. A chain joins it to the guard captain’s belt. His red eyes find me, then Fiona. Hatred strips away the charm he carried into my chambers.
“You compel a Khuzuth lord to appear in chains,” he says.
“You entered my inner keep behind royal steel while poison held me silent.”
“I answered an assassination.”
“You will answer evidence.”
Varrus looks toward the open space at the chamber’s center. “Or grant the duel you avoided at court. If you believe I attacked your house, meet me without ledgers and human testimony between us.”
The challenge draws approval from two younger nobles. Varrus expects that. A duel would turn conspiracy into a contest of strength and let every compromised house pretend the victor created truth.
“No,” I say.
His mouth twists. “Your caution survives even attempted murder.”
“So does my preference for consequences that cannot be repaired with a sword.”
“You fear losing.”
“I nearly lost my life to your preferred form of combat. A duel would test whether I can kill you. This council will determine whether you used debt, poison, and royal authority to attack my house. Those are separate questions, and only one matters here.”
Varrus glances toward the elders who once praised his calls for greater patrols. None repeats his challenge.
Theron strikes the stone once with his staff. “The council recognizes Lord Morwen’thir’s petition for public judgment. Lord Varrus will stand beneath seal and hear the charges.”
The guards position Varrus inside the silver circle worked into the floor.
The Arbiter’s witness raises both hands. “Truth serves balance. False testimony places speaker and house beneath the Arbiter’s judgment.”
I gesture to Joran.
He opens the first case and removes three ledgers sealed by the Lowtown market keeper, the evidence keeper, and the royal observer assigned after the poisoning. He places them before Theron.
“These records came from the compromised merchant’s locked room,” Joran says. “Each page was numbered before removal. The merchant’s own seal appears on the bindings.”
Theron examines the first ledger, then passes it to the elders beside him.
Joran turns a copy toward the chamber. “Nessa’s family debt was purchased six months ago by an account identified as Varrus ipia. Interest was increased through the K’sheng merchant until repayment became impossible. Three payments then moved from the same house account to the herb seller who supplied Lady Morwen’thir.”
Varrus laughs once. “An ipia contains dozens of dependents. Their purchases do not become my commands.”
“The payments bear your household counterseal,” Joran says.
“A seal used by stewards.”
“Then your steward may explain why the final payment was released one day before the poisoned herbs entered Morwen’thir.”
Joran places a fourth document beside the copied page. “The steward was questioned beneath the Arbiter’s seal. He confirms that the counterseal remained in Lord Varrus’s possession during the relevant week. His sworn record is attached.”
Varrus’s expression does not change, but the chaos around his restrained wrist stirs. Sarveth shifts one step closer to the silver circle.
Murmurs move through the benches.
Joran opens the second case. The evidence keeper lifts out glass-covered trays containing Fiona’s solarium-grown rirzed, the herbs bought in Lowtown, and stock secured from the merchant’s room. White tiles beneath the samples reveal the oily stain of numiscu.
Fiona rises only long enough to identify them.
