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It fits inside the leather pouch provided for my departure. I tighten the cord and fasten it beside the vial.

The shelves remain empty.

Only now do I understand why their emptiness fails to wound me.

Exile from House Obsidius is not the sentence I fear.

Exile means Beatrix remains under Council disposition while I am forced beyond Galmoleth. They will reassign her to another house, call the transfer lawful, and surround her with guards who answer to a demon permitted to claim her body.

I will be alive below, knowing the distance is enforced by threat of death.

Ten years ago, I accepted distance because it kept her beyond House Grolnok's reach. I carried out Asmodeus's sentences and called my survival duty. The bargain demanded isolation, and I mistook obedience for protection.

The Council now offers the same choice in another form.

Leave her and live.

Remain devoted and lose everything.

The choice no longer has power over me.

I cross to the bare desk and place an obsidian message slate on its surface.

The inventory servants overlooked it because I removed it from a concealed compartment before they entered. It is smaller than Zira's official slates, no longer than my palm, with one corner damaged by age. Arcane lines lie dormant beneath the black surface.

I draw the grounded-lightning vial from my belt.

Silver current coils inside the crystal. When I press the vial to the slate, light enters the carved channels and reveals the old legal script I copied before the Council hearing.

Vulmar showed me the provision after Beatrix found the treason edict.

Ancient demon law allows a condemned lord to challenge the law governing his sentence before exile is completed. The right predates Asmodeus, the Council of Seven, and every breeding decree written on Galmoleth. No Crown ruling erased it because demons will tolerate cruelty more readily than the removal of a formal challenge.

The invocation must be made before I cross the lower gate.

It requires no title. No land. No arena authority.

Only a demon willing to place his honor against the law.

I guide current through the slate and speak each phrase as the letters form.

"I, Draxon of the Obsidius line, condemned under Royal Edict Seventeen, invoke the ancient right of challenge before sentence is completed. I challenge the edict's honor, purpose, and fitness to govern the survival of demon blood. I demand hearing in the Grand Arena before the Council, the storm-court, and every house bound by its judgment."

The script burns silver, then sinks beneath the surface.

I add the time.

Midday.

The old law permits the Council to name the arena, but I choose the hour because delay serves Korgath. By midday, every noble who celebrated my exile will have heard the challenge and must decide whether to witness it.

I turn the slate over.

The message for Beatrix requires fewer words.

Grand Arena. Midday. I challenge the law, not the sentence.

I seal both faces with the pressure of my thumb. The Obsidius sigil flashes once. The Council stripped its legal authority, but the blood mark remains mine.