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Bran approaches the table.

Fiona rotates the charter toward him. “You will hold the guild copy, attend the accounting, and carry unresolved grievances through the steps written here. You will also tell me when the charter fails.”

Bran studies her. “Not if?”

“No law survives winter without revealing its flaws.”

He nods. “Then I’ll tell you.”

The trust between them predates this house, our marriage, and every authority I possess. Once, I would have regarded that loyalty as a rival influence requiring control. Now I recognize it as part of the foundation Fiona brought with her.

Lowtown came with her. Its needs and stubborn resourcefulness entered Morwen’thir in her calloused hands.

My house has not been orderly since.

It has become stronger.

Fiona takes the seal press from its case. The Morwen’thir device carved into its base matches the ring I hold. The ring was resized for me after I inherited the house, fitted to the hand through which I channel its oldest protections.

The clerk pours dark green wax beneath the charter’s final page.

Fiona pauses before applying the seal.

“This charter stands under House Morwen’thir,” she says. “Its protection extends to workers employed within our domain and to no authority beyond it. Its terms bind workers, overseers, stewards, and household officers according to the duties written here. It preserves service by preventing waste, neglect, and exhaustion from weakening the house.”

She looks at the gathered representatives.

“It does not promise that rank has vanished. It promises that terms will be recorded, rations will be protected, and grievances will be heard.”

Bran bows his head. “That is more than we had.”

“It is what we have now.”

She presses the seal into the wax.

Chaos stirs within the neptherium beneath our feet. The terrace veins answer the recognized mark with a silver pulse. It travels through the table and fixes the wax into a hard, gleaming green.

The charter becomes house law.

The clerk enters it into the registry. Fiona signs beneath the seal. Bran adds his mark as the guild’s first representative, followed by Briar and the other elected speakers.

Joran brings his fist against his breastplate.

“The Human Workers’ Guild is recognized,” he says.

Sarveth repeats the declaration. Her voice carries over the terrace wall and down toward the inner courtyard, where guards and workers wait to hear the result.

“The Human Workers’ Guild is recognized.”

The gathered humans stand straighter. They do not become nobles or gain freedom from Protheka’s hierarchy. They receive recorded protection, representation, and a path to be heard.

Fiona gives the guild copy to Bran.

“Take this to the hall,” she says. “Read it aloud before the workers choose their first accounting date.”

Bran receives the charter with both hands. “Yes, my Lady.”

His gaze shifts to me.