The ink had barely dried when the next knock came.
It was a young woman from the River Quarter, her boots muddy, her cheeks windburned. She held a rolled parchment in one hand and a basket of bread in the other.
"For the council," she said. "And a question."
Esmira invited her in without hesitation.
"What question?" I asked.
She set the basket down, carefully unrolled the parchment. It was hand-drawn—clumsy but heartfelt—an idea for a shared market permit between three rival districts.
"If we can trade without guards, can we govern without them too?"
Oren exhaled. "That’s the right question."
Mina lit another lantern. "Then let’s make a space for it. A place where any voice can ask."
By midday, the Hall of Questions had formed in the west corridor of Highcourt—no throne, no gavel,
