Arthur’s POV
The summons comes without urgency.
That alone tells me something is wrong.
No alarms. No flare through the Mark. No sharp ripple in the Veil. Just a runner at dawn, breathless from climbing the palace steps too fast, holding out a sealed packet with hands that shake from effort, not fear.
“From the north districts,” he says. “They asked for… perspective.”
Not judgment.
Not intervention.
Perspective.
I take the packet and dismiss him. The seal breaks easily. Inside are reports written in three different hands—contradictory, incomplete, honest.
A slow failure.
Anchor rotations missing shifts. Supplies arriving late. A council deadlocked over whether to draw from emergency reserves or wait another cycle. No surge yet. No catastrophe.
Just erosion.
This is the kind of
