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“Until Rhysandir can command, until his recognized healer releases him from immediate care, or until a sanctioned judgment supersedes the house protection.”

Limited time. The law gives us nothing more.

The captain faces Varrus. “My lord, the charter is valid.”

“The king’s authority stands above a house charter.”

“Not above a patron-sanctioned founding clause without judgment.”

“Rython sent you to prevent the destruction of this house.”

“My orders permit arrest under royal law. They do not command sacrilege.”

Varrus closes the distance between them. “You will let an attempted assassin remain beside her victim because she found an antique sentence in a dusty book?”

“I will honor the Arbiter’s balance until lawful review.”

“Then you will answer to the king for cowardice.”

The captain’s expression turns stony. “I will answer for my command.”

For the first time since entering, Varrus loses control of the scene. Chaos flickers crimson-black at the edges of his mantle. One royal soldier shifts away from him.

“This fraud buys you hours,” Varrus tells me. “Perhaps a day. When Morwen’thir stops breathing, no clause will preserve you. When he wakes, if he wakes, he will learn what your hands carried into his blood.”

“He is awake,” I say. “He has heard every word.”

Rhysandir’s gaze fixes on Varrus.

The hatred in it requires no movement.

Varrus sees. His magic snaps out.

He turns toward the doors. “Post the guard outside the inner keep. No person leaves Morwen’thir without royal inspection.”

“You cannot issue orders within this house,” Joran says.

“I can issue them to the King’s Guard.”

The captain lifts his hand before Joran answers. “My soldiers will withdraw beyond the inner gates. We will maintain an external watch while I send for sanctioned instruction.”

That watch can become a siege. The message can return with a narrower reading of the clause. Varrus has allies at court and may shape the judgment before the examiner reaches us.

Still, the soldiers begin to move.

The nearest guard backs from me. Two others turn toward the passage. Steel remains sheathed. Joran steps aside only far enough to give them a clear route out.

Varrus lingers beside the threshold.

“This delay will not save you when the clause expires,” he says quietly.

The threat is intended for me alone, but Joran hears it. His violet eyes sharpen.

“You sound very certain I will not survive the day,” I say.

“Certainty is not evidence.”

He follows the royal captain into the corridor.