Abby shouldered through the fort’s inner hall and into the office she and Asil shared, a long stone room that had once been the war room, maps still pinned to the walls like old arguments. Asil was already there, sleeves rolled, a small mountain of ledgers and requisitions Tina had dumped on the table awaiting Asil’s tidy wrath.

  Abby tossed the sealed packet down between them. The wax caught torchlight, dark and glossy, and the faint smell of ozone and rosemary lifted a hair’s breadth from it.

  They ignored it for three breaths.

  Then Abby cocked an eyebrow. “You know your face gives you away.”

  Asil didn’t look up. “My face does nothing of the sort.”

  “It does a particular sort,” Abby said, dropping into the chair opposite. “You’ve been smiling since I crossed the yard.”

  “I have not.”

  “Mm. Jack’s within a mile, then.” Abby folded her arms, satisfied. “It’s been more obvious since the bonding. You get a compass for your husband and a mood-tide to match.”

  Asil finally glanced up, annoyed, fond, caught. “Shut up,” she said primly, but her mouth betrayed her with the slightest upward tilt.

  Abby grinned, brief and sharp, and tapped the seal. “Our messenger’s prize. Says it’s for the person in charge. He thought that meant Jack.”

  “That would have gone poorly for him,” Asil said, amusement cooling to business. She drew the packet closer and inspected the stamp. The wax was warded; she could feel the single-keyed logic coiled inside, hungry for a specific hand. “Keyed to Jack’s signature,” she murmured. “Sloppy work, though.”

  Abby leaned in. “Can you open it without frying the ink?”

  Asil traced a finger along the seam, bleeding the charge into the table through a thin pane of Thread and Cant, a trick she’d stolen from Eamon and made cleaner. The ward sighed, then unraveled like damp silk, leaving the wax whole in her palm.

  She broke it, unfolded the thick paper, and set it where both of them could read.

  To Mr. Jack Hart, Provisional Leader of the Anjelica Settlement,

  I send you greetings on behalf of the people of Freedom, a community of Outworlders established a few days’ journey southwest of Pendle. In the months since the old tides shifted and this new current took hold, we have done what we were taught to do where we come from: we have built.

  Our roads are patrolled. Our wards hold. We have granaries under lock and ledger, crafts in proper shops, and a militia drilled to order. Children sleep through the night, and the weak are not left to fend for themselves. We have instituted common courts to settle disputes and adopted a stable schedule of work and rest that has kept our people fed and unafraid.

  I write to propose a formal consolidation of our efforts. Fragmented banners invite predators and opportunists alike; a single standard saves lives. We therefore invite you to enter talks to join Anjelica to Freedom under a unified accord, with Freedom as the capital and Anjelica recognized as a principal province. Your experience would be honored by a seat on my Council of Stewards, where firm hands can keep the peace and set a consistent course.

  We have seen, with respect, that the ways of Aerothane are not our ways. Their customs, however old, often stand at cross-purposes with the safety and good order Outworlders require. We welcome all who will live under common sense and common law; those who will not may remain as friends beyond our borders. Instruction will be provided where needed so that all may find their proper place and purpose without confusion.

  For the sake of stability, we have begun standardizing our exchanges. Mana gems (iron and bronze) are received at set rates; coin remains in circulation where prudent. Simple standards such as these prevent mischief and make room for households to flourish in their work.

  I am prepared to share our ward schedules and road plans immediately upon commencement of talks. Further, I propose a meeting within the fortnight at a neutral point of your choosing between Freedom and Pendle. Bring whom you deem fitting; my staff and I will come with a small escort to avoid any misunderstanding.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  If you are of like mind, that scattered efforts must give way to order, and that those suited to decision should bear it, then I trust we will find agreement quickly. If not, we shall at least have spoken like neighbors.

  In order and in good faith,

  Marcus Hale

  Provost of Freedom

  Acting Regent, Provisional Accord

  Abby’s mouth went very flat halfway through and stayed there to the end. She tapped a knuckle once on “Council of Stewards,” then again on “proper place and purpose,” and did not say the first three things that came to mind.

  Asil read it twice, expression composed, eyes colder by a degree each pass.

  They sat with the letter between them until the torches ticked and went quiet again.

  Asil finally looked up, incredulity sharpening into something with teeth. “I should pay this Marcus a visit and show him who runs what with my fist up his…”

  “...policy agenda,” Abby cut in, deadpan. “Which starts with not breaking our neighbors before breakfast.”

  Asil pinched the bridge of her nose, then flattened the letter with two fingers. “He writes like a ledger in a wig.”

  “He writes like a man recruiting,” Abby said. “Order, safety, full bellies. He’s not wrong about what people want.”

  “He’s wrong about who decides how they get it.”

  “No argument.” Abby tapped the seal, then the word capital. “But if we answer with heat, we play his game. If we answer with structure, we make him play ours.”

  Asil’s mouth twitched. “Structure we have.”

  “Then let’s use it.” Abby leaned back. “We wait for Jack, we bring this to the council. Big enough to share the weight, smart enough to keep the center of gravity here.”

  Asil considered, eyes on the map wall as if the roads might shift under her gaze. “Jack should be here by noon,” she said, trying to make it sound casual and failing by a breath.

  “Which your face definitely didn’t already know,” Abby murmured.

  “Shut up,” Asil said, without heat. Then, “Council it is.”

  They didn’t need to say the names, but they did anyway, like counting gear before a climb.

  “Asil, Loren, Jack,” Abby said. “The three leads.”

  “Abby, Gideon, Eamon, Cressa,” Asil added. “The rest of the seven.”

  Abby nodded. “Petros is still a no.”

  “He’d rather marry a chalkboard than a quorum,” Asil said fondly. “We asked. He declined. Magic over politics.”

  “Jack tried to pull the same stunt,” Abby said. “Cornerstone claims say otherwise.”

  Asil’s lips curved. “He fought it. He lost.”

  “And Eamon only got a chair because Cressa dragged him to it by the ear,” Abby said.

  “The council needed his head,” Asil said. “He pretends not to enjoy it. He lies.”

  They both let that sit, a small private joke that tasted like relief.

  “As for Loren,” Abby went on, “he keeps Hajill sharp. Gideon’s steady as bedrock at Warren. Cressa makes sure we don’t mistake busy for brave.” She flicked a glance at Asil. “And you, ”

  “...set the agenda,” Asil finished, not bragging, just naming a fact.

  “Until the elections,” Abby said.

  A corner of Asil’s paper stack lifted in the breeze from the hall. “Council of Seven,” she said thoughtfully, like testing how the name still fit in her mouth. “One year old and already more patient than its founders.”

  “Only because we put the timer on it,” Abby said. “Three years to establish. Then votes. The council seats go to a ballot, and the council elects the chair.”

  “We promised them it wouldn’t be forever,” Asil agreed. “Temporary scaffolding, not a crown.”

  Abby tapped the letter again. “Which is exactly what we tell Marcus. We are not a province to be absorbed. We are a community with a charter. We’ll hear him, at our table, under our rules.”

  Asil folded the letter once, crisp and careful, as if the crease itself were a decision. “Draft an acknowledgment. Neutral, polite, firm. We’ll set the meeting terms after the council.”

  Abby rose. “On it.”

  She paused at the door. “And Asil?”

  “Yes?”

  “If he tries to hand the next message to Jack,” Abby said, “I’ll introduce him to our policy agenda personally.”

  Asil’s smile was small and genuine. “Do try.”

  Abby left the office with the letter’s weight riding even and the shape of the council steady in her head: seven chairs, one table, a promise they’d made a year ago to build something that would outlast them, and the plan to let the people choose who led it when the time came.