The descent into Meridian should've felt like relief—warm stone after days of ice, city lights after mountain silence—but it didn't. It felt like walking into a room where someone had already decided the ending and was just waiting for the actors to arrive.

Soren knew they were being watched long before he saw the watchers. The lower districts were thick with festival banners: blue and white draped from balconies, silver strips woven through iron lampposts. The streets were loud, crowded, and somehow brittle, every voice pitched wrong, every glance lingering too long. Word of the ridge fight had preceded them; Soren felt it in the weight of eyes tracking the Lady's coat, the guards' muted reactions, the whispers that stopped just as he turned to look.

Mira walked beside him, hood half-drawn, the injured hand buried in her coat. She hadn't complained once since the bridge. She didn't need to—the swelling spoke for her.

Valenna murmured corrections under his skin as he moved.

"You're lifting your shoulder. Lower it.

Step through your heel, not the outside edge.

Stop gripping the hilt like you're strangling it."

Soren loosened his fingers, exhaled through his nose. The shard warmed at the acknowledgment.

Ahead, the Lady walked with her chin high and her eyes forward, unbothered by the growing wake of attention. If anything, she looked mildly annoyed at the entire city for existing.

Near the lower gate, a man waited in formal Tribunal blue. Silver-threaded sleeves, an ink-stained collar, a stack of parchment held like a shield.

"You're late," he said without greeting, eyes flitting from Mira to Soren to the Lady. "The Assembly has been waiting."

The Lady didn't slow. "You should try crossing the Narrows sometime. It builds patience."

The envoy's jaw tightened. He stepped aside, motioning them through like someone trying very hard not to show offense.

They followed him through layered gates, each heavier and more ornate than the last. At the third archway, two guards peeled the Lady away, insisting on a private "pre-hearing briefing." She agreed without hesitation, offering Mira a small nod and Soren a brief glance that said, Don't follow.

The door shut behind her. Seconds later, raised voices leaked into the corridor.

Mira leaned against the wall, wincing as her hand brushed the stone. She unwrapped the cloth. The swelling had climbed to her wrist, the skin mottled with bruising and a faint gray discoloration.

Soren crouched in front of her. "You need that looked at."

She smirked. "You volunteering?"

"Not unless you want it done slowly."

She relented. Soren cleaned the dried blood, propped the fingers straight, and retied the scarf. She hissed once but didn't pull away.

"You realize," she said, "if this gets any worse, you're solo on the return trip."

Soren didn't look up. "I'll manage."

"You always say that."

"And I'm always right."

Mira snorted softly. "I hate that you're right about that."

The Lady emerged then—pale, jaw tight, eyes sharper than before. The envoy followed her out, stiff and red-eared, refusing to meet her gaze.

Soren straightened. "Problem?"

She adjusted her gloves. "Someone just filed a petition to bar my testimony."

"On what grounds?"

"That I'm 'compromised.'" Her voice was flat. "And someone with money made sure the petition didn't get laughed out of the room."

She didn't say the name, but the weight of it settled between them anyway.

They moved on.

Up the final corridor, the city noise dimmed, replaced by the hush of polished stone and the distant echo of robed officials crossing marble floors. The Assembly district was a world apart—clean, cold, and suffocating.

Valenna's corrections resumed as Soren walked.

"Your stance is collapsing.

Your breath is uneven.

Aura won't answer stress; it answers precision."

He adjusted again. Felt his muscles realign. Felt the shard's hum even out.

They were nearly at the inner gate when it happened.

A servant stepped into the hallway—tray in hand, posture loose, head down. Everything normal except the shoes. Soft-soled, too flexible for service work. And the right hand was too tight around the cloth drape.

Soren didn't think. He moved.

He shoved the Lady back with his forearm just as the man lunged, blade flashing from beneath the tray. Mira reached for her left-hand knife, only for pain to seize her wrist, making the motion falter.

Soren filled the gap.

He breathed in on the lift, just as Valenna had drilled.

Set the weight on his heel.

Let the motion finish before the thought.

The Aura answered—clean, narrow, a line of cold light that trailed the sword in a controlled arc.

His blade cut the man across the ribs. Not a deep wound, but enough to fold him to the floor, gasping, bleeding.

The assassin grabbed Soren's sleeve, coughing red.

"Na…reth…" he choked.

The word broke, then the man went still.

Mira cursed. "Of course they'd try something inside the damn city walls. Cowards."

Soren stepped back, letting the adrenaline thin out. The Aura dissipated, leaving the blade cold and ordinary again. He wiped it on the assassin's sleeve, sheathed it, and steadied his breathing.

The Tribunal guards arrived seconds later, drawn by the noise. They seized the body, questioned no one, and urged the Lady forward with a new urgency.

She paused at the Assembly Estate gates, turning back to Soren and Mira.

"You did more than keep me alive," she said quietly.

Soren nodded once. "We weren't doing it for the Tribunal."

A faint smile tugged at her mouth—a quick, private thing.

"Even better."

Then she disappeared through the gates, swallowed by gold light and rows of robed officials.

Mission complete.

Mira sagged against the stone wall, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead. "Well," she said, "you know what's next."

Soren arched a brow. "Debrief?"

Mira laughed once. "Interrogation. You used Aura in public, Vale. They're going to want details."

He touched his wrist where the shard thrummed warm beneath the skin.

Valenna's voice slid through him:

"Let them ask. You answer nothing."

Mira pushed off the wall, gesturing for him to walk. "Come on. Let's go get yelled at."

Soren followed, boots echoing through the corridor, Aura steady in his palm like a heartbeat he'd finally learned to control.

The city roared outside.

The Tribunal waited.

And whatever came next, he'd face it head-on.

The Tribunal did not waste time.

Soren and Mira were escorted straight from the corridor into a stone antechamber built like a punishment cell that no one bothered to call a punishment cell. The walls were smooth, cold, and too clean. Torches hissed in iron brackets. The only furniture was a long table and three chairs—two on one side, one on the other, power structured into the layout before a single word was spoken.

Mira dropped into the nearest chair, cradling her left hand. Soren stayed standing until the guards left and the door shut with a hard finality.

"You should sit," Mira muttered.

"I'm fine."

"You're projecting 'I'm guilty of something' energy."

Before he could answer, a clerk entered—thin, severe, wearing Tribunal gray with the polished precision of someone who believed rules were holy commandments. He sat opposite them without greeting.

Ink, quill, parchment.

All set down with ritual neatness.

"Name," the clerk said, looking at Mira.

"Mira Ardan. Tactical adjunct."

"Hand."

"Injured. Thanks for noticing."

The clerk ignored that. He turned to Soren.

"And you."

"A cadet."

The clerk scribbled something.

Then, flatly:

"You performed a forbidden technique."

Mira rolled her eyes. "Aura manifestation is not forbidden."

"In public ground," the clerk snapped. "Within sovereign Assembly boundaries. Without Tribunal authorization."

Soren didn't react. He met the man's gaze, unblinking.

"My charge was under threat."

"Threat is irrelevant to protocol. You are required to—"

Soren interrupted. "She'd be dead if I followed protocol."

The clerk froze mid-quill stroke, lips thinning.

Mira sighed. "He's right, you know."

"Your commentary is not required."

"Then don't say stupid things."

The clerk bristled but pushed on, flipping to a new sheet of parchment.

"State the technique used."

"Standard cut," Soren said.

The clerk's eyes narrowed. "And the Aura?"

"A by-product."

"Impossible. Aura requires conscious invocation."

Soren held the man's stare, expression unreadable.

"No. It doesn't."

The clerk's quill hovered. "Explain that."

Soren didn't.

Valenna's presence stirred beneath the skin of his wrist—silent, but firm, a hand closing over a blade before it could be drawn.

"Do not give them anything," she whispered. "Aura is yours, not theirs."

The clerk exhaled sharply. "We can hold you for obstruction."

Mira leaned back, kicking one boot onto the table. "Try it. Then you can explain to the Tribunal why you detained the man who saved their honored guest."

"Mira," Soren said quietly.

"What? He's being an ass."

The clerk inhaled through his nose, steadying himself. "The Tribunal will not recognize unregulated Aura manifestation. We must determine if what you used constitutes a risk."

"It doesn't," Soren said.

"And I am to take your word for it?"

"No. You're to take the Lady's."

That stopped the clerk. His jaw flexed.

Because he knew exactly what that meant.

A page burst through the door before he could respond. The girl bowed, breathless.

"Summons from within," she said. "Both of them. Now."

The clerk stiffened. "The Lady requested them?"

"No," the page answered. "The Council representative did."

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