It came not with a trumpet, but with a whisper.
In the dim light of a noble salon tucked beneath the Highcourt gardens, a letter arrived on scented parchment.
It bore no seal.
But the contents were clear: one of their own was ready to switch sides.
Lady Esmira.
The oldest, most measured voice on the council. The one who had stood silent too long—and now had heard too much to ignore.
—
Meanwhile, in the forum square, the Charter team reconvened beneath a canopy of torchlight and thunderclouds.
"They’ve moved from threats to fractures," Correnne said, dropping a slip of intercepted communication onto the table. "The council’s losing cohesion. We’re being called to testify—not plead."
"Then the tide’s turning," Mina said.
"But a turning tide can drown the unwary," Halda replied grim
