The great audience hall of Vartis was, on most days, a theatre of mild suffering.

  Today was no exception.

  A leaking roof in the western quarter. A dispute over a market stall’s awning shading the apothecary’s door. And now — the crown jewel of bureaucracy — a quarrel between two minor landholders over wool, barges, and the sanctity of docking schedules.

  Fran sat at the high seat in her usual posture: spine straight, head high, and jaw clenched just tight enough to hurt.

  Lord Bayreth, owner of three barges and perhaps four teeth, gestured wildly toward the other petitioner.

  “She moved her crates early, Your Grace! Took up my entire bay! I’ve got sheep coming down from the hills, and not a single place to unload!”

  Lady Nessa, short and fierce, snapped back, “It’s not your bay! It’s the Duchy’s bay, and I applied for priority status in Frostmarch! Check the ledger!”

  The steward beside Fran leaned in, voice low and thick with the habitual condescension of seasoned advisors.

  “If I may, Your Grace, the usual response would be—”

  Fran raised her hand.

  Silence fell. The court shifted. Councillors straightened. Even the steward blinked.

  She turned her gaze on the bickering petitioners.

  “Six weeks ago, this court approved renovations to the Ilvarra docks. That includes the outer bays your licenses cover. The work schedule makes your original agreement obsolete.”

  Bayreth opened his mouth.

  She went on, smooth as a whetstone.

  “However, the new trade code allows for joint operation of seasonal berths under a dual petition. File together, and you’ll both gain shared access to the new upstream bays — closer to the storage lanes, and with reduced fees.”

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  Nessa squinted. “That… that’s not in the old tariff law.”

  “It is,” Fran said. “Page six, paragraph four.”

  She turned. “Sir Rhyve?”

  The knight, barely hiding his satisfaction, said, “Confirmed, Your Grace. With a joint filing, both parties can save up to two-thirds in tariff transport.”

  Fran smiled. “Unless you’d prefer to contest it and pay the fine.”

  Bayreth paled. “What fine?”

  “Seventeen crowns,” Rhyve replied smoothly. “Each.”

  After some grumbling and two very ungracious bows, both parties mumbled agreement and retreated.

  The next petitioner was ushered in — and Fran managed, for once, to listen without her skull aching.

  The hall adjourned an hour later. The stone walls felt warmer than usual.

  Fran descended the steps from her seat slowly, half-expecting someone to ruin it — to remind her it was luck, or temporary, or insufficient.

  But no one did.

  Thalyra Velgrin met her eyes. The older woman gave a nod — not kind, not friendly, but measured.

  Fran returned it. She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

  She had earned this one.

  “You’re still standing,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned — and there he was, naturally. Gale Dekarios, standing just behind the marble column like a ghost who had wandered in with an opinion.

  She exhaled. “For now.”

  He tilted his head. “I’m impressed. That was the cleanest economic threat I’ve seen all month.”

  “Remind me to have it engraved.”

  He smirked. “You held your ground.”

  Fran adjusted her gloves. “It was wool. I wasn’t exactly negotiating with warlords.”

  “No,” he said mildly. “Just landholders. More dangerous, in my experience.”

  As they crossed the outer corridor, a steward approached and bowed with excessive flourish.

  “A courier arrived from Orveil,” he said. “They request Her Grace’s presence at the upcoming betrothal celebration of Lady Selmine Thareth and Lord Arden Vaelir.”

  “Request?” Fran asked.

  “Their exact wording was... expected.”

  “How polite of them.” Gale raised a brow.

  Fran took the scroll, cracked the pale violet seal, and read.

  “To Her Grace Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher, and her appointed advisor, Master Gale Dekarios.

  Your presence is formally expected at the union of Lady Selmine Thareth and Lord Arden Vaelir, to be held in the House of Thareth, Orveil.”

  Expected.

  Not requested.

  Not honored.

  Expected.

  The tone was brittle and meticulous, the same way glass threatens to shatter from being too clean.

  “I’ll have the steward reply,” she said. “And I suppose we’ll need to depart within the week.”

  She dismissed the steward, then resumed walking along the corridor, Gale beside her.

  “They want to measure me,” she said.

  “They want to parade you,” Gale corrected. “And judge whether you stumble.”

  “They might also be judging you.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  She gave him a look.

  “I have a terrible reputation to maintain,” he added, deadpan.