Authority always arrives politely.
That’s how you know it’s dangerous.
They don’t storm gates. They don’t draw blades. They don’t shout.
They arrive with clean boots, steady breath, and documents already witnessed, already sealed, already divine-law compliant. They don’t threaten violence.
They threaten process.
I watch them from the upper gallery of the Vance stronghold’s reception hall as they step inside like the stone itself invited them.
It didn’t.
Three representatives of the Concord Tribunal’s Internal Compliance Office. Not soldiers. Not guards. Oath-law administrators — the kind trained to dismantle lives through clauses instead of weapons.
Dark coats marked with sigil-thread. Neutral colors. No faction banners.
Hands empty.
Eyes not.
They sweep the hall with profession
