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Worse, a challenge would confirm that his speech wounded my authority. Varrus wants a visible response. He has spent decades provoking one, ever since our duel converted ambition into grievance.

I consider less obvious answers.

House alliances can be purchased through trade concessions. Varrus’s supporters among the lower houses can be divided by offering them access to Morwen’thir routes. Records of his debts might turn cautious nobles against him. His military estates rely upon metal from northern mines. A change in tariffs would remind him that swords begin as ore.

Each response carries a cost.

I retrieve a fresh sheet of paper and write three names from memory. One commands influence among the king’s advisers. One controls river transport near Orthani. The third maintains an old dispute with House Varrus over boundary stones and hunting rights.

Pressure applied through all three would force Varrus to defend separate interests. It would also tell him I have taken notice.

I set the list aside without dismissing it.

Marriage is the cleaner answer.

The conclusion irritates me enough that the repaired calm in the room begins to fray. Shadows twist along the edge of my desk. One curls upward in the shape of a narrow hand before I force it flat again.

A wife would occupy space within my stronghold, demand formal attention, and arrive with relatives who mistake connection for permission. A noble match would bind Morwen’thir to another house’s ambitions. Every favor granted to her kin would become precedent. Every disagreement would become court entertainment.

Affection is irrelevant. Compatibility is useful but not necessary.

An heir is necessary.

I read the report from the beginning, committing each word to memory. Varrus’s phrasing matters. So do the names of those who laughed, those who approved, and those who remained cautious. My observer has included all of them.

There are twenty-seven.

I repeat the list silently, attaching each name to its house, interests, debts, and known grievances. By the third reading, I can reconstruct the speech in order. By the fifth, I know where the observer’s hand pressed too hard against the paper.

The karasu tears another strip of meat from the dish.

I carry the report to the smaller table beside the hearth. A shallow silver vessel rests there, used for the destruction of sensitive correspondence. The dish bears faint dark stains from earlier messages.

The paper lies pale against the metal.

I place two fingers over Varrus’s recorded words and release a measured thread of chaos.

The ink writhes first. Letters loosen into black veins, crawling across the page without regard for their former lines. The paper curls inward. Its fibers separate, change, and collapse. Within seconds, the report becomes a mound of black dust.

One final sentence remains intact near the edge.

A house without an heir is a tomb awaiting its corpse.

I let the chaos take it.

The last strip of paper dissolves. Black dust settles across the silver dish without smoke or flame.

Memorized words are harder to steal.

A knock sounds at the study door.

“Enter.”

Matron Sarveth steps inside. Indigo eyes survey the room, taking in the damaged inkstand, the silver dish, and the waiting karasu. Her dark robes fall in severe lines, each fold arranged according to household rank. She has served Morwen’thir longer than many houses have retained their names.

“My lord,” she says. “The western accounts are ready for your review.”

“Place them on the desk.”