The envelope is heavier than it looks.
That’s deliberate. Weight implies legitimacy. Ceremony. Consequence.
I let it rest against my palm without breaking eye contact with the Tribunal agent. His smile is still there—pleasant, patient, predatory.
“An honour,” I say.
His eyes brighten slightly. “The Conclave believes in transparency.”
“Of course it does,” Lord Merek murmurs under his breath.
The agent pretends not to hear him.
Behind me, the Spire’s wards hum faintly—subtle oath-resonance shifting along the walls. Not reacting. Listening. The building records moments like this the way law does: quietly, permanently.
“You understand,” the agent continues smoothly, “public confidence has… wavered.”
“Public confidence,” Lord Kieran repeats evenly. “Or Tribunal confidence?”
The smile
