The Hall of Aster smelled of polished marble and old incense. Pillars rose like sentries, each carved with the Order’s sigils—crossed glaives and a single ascending star. Candles in iron sconces guttered; their light gilded the faces of the congregation and cut hard lines across robes and cheekbones. Every seat was full. Every whisper ran like a current beneath the vaulted ceiling. Giana Deleon stood at the center of it all with her palms folded, the bone clasp at her throat a cold, familiar weight. It was small and white and carved with tiny runes only the Ardent understood. On her collar it meant senior, it meant trust, it meant she had spent ten winters on Mount Aster learning to make belief into armor. It had also been a promise. Tonight, that promise was a showpiece. “Order,” Thomas Jensen’s voice rang out before he lifted his hands. He loved that—speaking so the room flinched, then followed. The first senior brother always got a stage. Tonight, the stage was a courtroom, and Thomas wore the smile of a man whose theater had the backing of fate. He opened a wooden box with a flourish and, under the torchlight, produced a scrap of lace stained faintly with blood. It was the sort of thing that made a crowd close its throat. The murmur rose like wind through reeds. “This,” Thomas said softly, “was found affixed to Mistress Giana’s person, hidden in the sleeves. It is proof—" He