The hall breathes.
It is a breath of old stone and newer gold. You stand at the edge of the dais. The chandeliers drip light like honey.
Look down.
You hold the seal.
It is cold. It is heavy. It is a square of obsidian, polished to a mirror finish. In its center, a single word is etched. *Truth*.
No. Not a word. A symbol. A glyph. A trap.
You are the Archivist.
The court looks at you.
They do...
The mirror cracked. It happened while Elias was shaving. A thin, white spiderweb appeared on the silvered glass, splitting his reflection in two. He froze. The razor hovered near his jaw. He did not drop it. He simply stared at the fracture, watching the left side of his face waver while the right remained fixed. The morning light in the room was gray and thin. It came through the high, barred...
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