Orion moves back into my line of sight, hands braced on the table, posture casual in the way men are casual when they could break a room in half if they wanted. “Good,” he says simply. “Hold onto that.”
He slides a tablet toward me. Not raw parchments—summaries. Clean. Polished. The kind of information meant to be shown in hearings without making anyone look guilty.
Movement logs. Council dispatches. Names I recognize from my own audits—Tribunal liaisons, “stability assessors,” internal review clerks who smile like saints and write like executioners. Locations I’ve only ever heard referenced in footnotes and hushed warnings. Places that smell like ink and sanctimony and decisions made without consent.
“This is what your brothers have,” Silas says. He’s seated to my right, angled like he
