Morning light poured into Greenland's great hall like cold water. Benches scraped. Clerks whispered. Patrol leaders stood in ranks, boots aligned with the flagstones. Steward Rook held a ledger like a shield.
Ella stepped in beside him, hair braided, borrowed dress plain and clean. Her gaze tracked the room's currents—the way attention tilted toward the dais where Alpha Gilbert stood conferring with a captain, the way curiosity pooled at the edges where servants lingered.
Sophie slipped through a side door, cheeks flushed from the stairs, a stack of folded lists in her hands. Her eyes found Ella's and softened.
“Stand with me," Rook murmured, as if he were pointing out a quiet eddy in a fast river. “Left of the dais. Out of the draft."
Ella dipped her chin. “Is this a trial?"
“Invento
