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“What are the terms?”

Sarveth unrolls the edict.

Silver lettering marks the king’s directive. Beneath it, darker ink describes the proposed marriage contract. Fiona Holt will enter Morwen’thir Stronghold, assume the courtesy rank of its lady, obey house law, and provide a recognized line of succession.

The language gives me a title while preserving Rhysandir’s authority over every part of my life.

I force myself to read each provision. I will reside inside the stronghold. My movements beyond its walls will require household approval. Property I bring into the marriage becomes protected house property. My clinic remains under my control only until I depart.

The contract protects my person against sale, physical punishment by household officers, or reassignment as labor. These are presented as privileges. Every human should possess them without marrying the lord who controls the territory.

“What does Lowtown receive?” I ask.

“Protection under existing law.”

“It already has that in theory.”

“The marriage is not a trade negotiation.”

“It became one when your lord selected Lowtown’s healer. If I leave, this clinic loses its only permanent practitioner. If he wants obedience, he can purchase what my absence costs.”

Sarveth studies me. “You understand the edict cannot be bargained away.”

“I understand Lord Morwen’thir wants a wife who prevents political inconvenience. I want my people alive through winter.”

“What price do you place upon your compliance?”

“Grain. Firewood. Medicine.”

“Amounts?”

“Enough to keep Lowtown supplied until the worst of winter passes.”

“You ask for an undefined fortune.”

“I ask for what the stronghold removes through tithes.”

Sarveth sets one long finger beside a paragraph in the contract.

“Lord Morwen’thir anticipated material terms. Upon your acceptance, Lowtown will receive exactly three months of grain, firewood, and medical supplies from the stronghold stores.”

I read the provision.

The amounts are listed beneath it. Grain sufficient for every registered household. Dry tiphe allocated through the communal storehouse. Rirzed, clean linen, fever treatments, and medicinal roots that have become impossible to obtain at the market.

Exactly three months.

Long enough to carry Lowtown through the deepest winter if distribution remains fair.

“What happens after three months?”

“Existing obligations resume.”

“And if the supplies are delayed?”

“They will be released before you enter the stronghold.”

“Who controls distribution?”