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Bran steps away and rubs his arm.

Silence settles over the courtyard. Stable workers pause beside the stalls. Miou guards near the inner wall turn toward us. Human servants carrying ash buckets stop beneath a covered passage.

They all hear the word Rhysandir chose.

Guest.

“Lord Morwen’thir,” the guard says, “he remained inside the ward after completing his delivery.”

“At my instruction.”

The guard straightens.

“Bran is an invited guest of Lady Morwen’thir,” Rhysandir says. “He is here to inspect the keep’s wood stores and advise her on their condition.”

Bran glances toward me.

I sent the request through Sarveth. She agreed that someone familiar with tiphe should inspect the stores, but I did not know Rhysandir had approved Bran’s visit personally.

The guard bows. “I was not informed, my lord.”

“You were informed when Lady Morwen’thir ordered his release.”

The reprimand is calm.

That gives it more force.

“My apologies, Lady Morwen’thir.”

The Zagfer guard bows to me in front of the courtyard.

Several human servants stare openly. A dark elf guard apologizing to a human would be rare anywhere in Protheka. Here, before armed witnesses and the head of House Morwen’thir, it becomes a public declaration about my rank.

“Add Bran’s name to the gate record,” Rhysandir says. “When he arrives on Lady Morwen’thir’s business, he enters under her authority.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And return his cap.”

The guard retrieves it from the snow. He brushes away the powder and offers it to Bran.

Bran accepts it. A wet streak marks one cheek, but he holds himself with stubborn dignity.

“Thank you,” he says.

The words seem intended for everyone and no one.

The guard returns to his post.

Movment resumes slowly. A stable worker leads an equus across the ward. Servants continue toward the kitchens. The witnesses scatter, carrying the event with them.

Every human in the stronghold will hear before nightfall that Rhysandir defended my authority at the gate.

Lowtown may hear by tomorrow.

I retrieve my herb basket from the stone bench.

Rhysandir’s black eyes rest on me. A controlled flicker moves through our connection. Satisfaction, perhaps, accompanied by the image of a mark entered correctly into a ledger.