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The guards take him from the silver circle.

No duel has elevated him. No blade has made him a martyr. Law and evidence remove what ambition built.

The doors close behind Dravor Varrus, stripped of the Ridge, his title, and every command that once made his threats dangerous.

31

FIONA

The chains on Varrus fade down the corridor, but no one leaves the grand council chamber.

Rhysandir remains standing beside the central table. The effort costs him more than anyone beyond Joran and me can see. His shoulders stay level, his black eyes clear. Only the careful placement of his right hand against the neptherium reveals that his strength has limits.

I begin to rise from my council seat.

“Fiona,” he says. “Come before the council.”

Every face turns toward me.

I walk around the table and descend into the silver circle where Varrus received judgment. The evidence cases remain open nearby. Numiscu glistens beneath glass. Nessa waits among the witnesses, looking toward the floor.

Rhysandir joins me inside the circle.

He wears the house ring on his right hand. The old metal catches the silver movement inside the pillars.

“This council has judged an attack upon House Morwen’thir,” he says. “It will now recognize the authority that preserved that house during my incapacity.”

Unease passes through the elder benches.

Rhysandir faces me rather than them. “Fiona entered Morwen’thir under royal contract and unequal necessity. She remained by choice. She served this house when its lord could offer neither command nor protection. Before the council, the monarchy, and the Arbiter, I name her my chosen partner and Lady of House Morwen’thir.”

The words reach places ceremony never touched.

He turns to the benches.

“Her authority includes speaking for this house in my presence or absence, commanding Morwen’thir household forces, directing its internal governance, and issuing decrees under the house seal. Orders carrying her recognized mark will bear the same obligation as mine within our domain.”

Joran strikes his fist against his armor. Sarveth follows. Morwen’thir guards throughout the chamber repeat the salute until iron answers iron beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Elder Theron remains seated.

When the sound ends, he rises with both hands resting on his staff.

“I accept the judgment rendered against Varrus,” he says. “The evidence satisfied law and balance. I accept that Lady Morwen’thir invoked the founding clause while you lay insensate.”

His pale green gaze comes to rest on me.

“I object to what you make from that necessity. A human may serve a house with distinction. Service cannot transform blood. No human has commanded a Khuzuth house within the Causadurn Ridge.”

Several elders voice agreement.

Rhysandir’s magic gathers near his hand. I feel his anger through our connection, controlled but immediate.

I speak before he can.

“The Arbiter’s balance is not sameness,” I say. “It weighs what stands on each side and prevents power from consuming what it is meant to preserve.”

Theron’s expression remains severe. “Do not instruct me in my patron’s tenets.”