The Circle shifted beneath the weight of the inquiry.
Elder Riven was not the kind of man who rose to power to be questioned.
That was precedent.
That was custom.
His Mantle flared — violet.
Proof of highest affinity to the Current of Endless Night.
He leaned forward.
Dark raven beard, paired with darker, tightly bound cultural braids, and an expression carved from something older than contempt.
Three golden claw-marks cut diagonally across the left side of his face.
And more notable still —
He was the only other Elder, besides the High Law herself, who wore a sacred crown within the walls of the Red Keep.
Whether defiance of customs that stated otherwise, arrogance, or belief that the obsidian simplicity of the Crown of Twilight Towers rendered it any less sacred — that question belonged to the Council.
And beneath that crown, his gaze moved.
Across Chion.
Then to the parchment.
Careful.
Measured.
Real.
Without doubt, it was.
Pureblood Nyxvalis did not seal documents in wax — but in their own blood.
Easily seen.
Easily recognised.
Impossible to forge.
Which raised the question —
How did the boy come to possess it?
How had he breached the Second Outer Blade confinements?
In truth, even Chion did not know.
How Violet slipped between the seams of the Vale, unseen, remained a mystery — one he could not solve. But one he wholly appreciated.
The shock it carved across the Council's faces was… instructive.
He watched as Riven's gaze shifted — right, then left, then right again.
A calculation.
Incompetence was one thing.
To admit it — before a monolith of pride and judgment —
Suicide.
His answer weighed against pride, against arrogance, against the cost of denouncing the blood of Artyr.
Then he spoke.
"The seal belongs to the Iron Veil."
Silence broke.
Not loudly.
But completely.
Admission. Without resistance.
Unexpected — to the accused. To the Council as a whole.
Chion nodded once.
Careful.
Measured.
The hint of a smile surfaced — then died before it could take form.
"Thank you, Elder. With that confirmation —"
A slight shift of the parchment in his hand.
"I shall consolidate my petition by citing the relevant contents directly."
"My first — the section noting the supply requisitions of the twenty-fourth."
His gaze held the ring of thrones.
"From the Fourth Outer Moon — the Iron Veil requisitioned bloodmoth powder, one quarter-measure. Three kilograms of Black Widow lily petals, petals only. And twelve vials of Ashenmoon Tonic."
"From the First Outer Blade confinement — thirty newly forged Black Iron Blades and fifty arrowheads of the same material."
"Taken in isolation — standard supplies. Consistent with Veldrath Hunt doctrine for inhuman subjugation."
His voice remained level.
"Context, however, does not permit isolation."
"The last recorded monster incursion within fifty kilometres of the Vale occurred in the year 1237 of the Imperial Calendar. Four hundred and ninety-three years ago."
"For a commission of this nature to be viable, the requested materials — Category One toxins among them — should have been inducted under cross-Sphere transport protocols. Delivered to assets with documented, justifiable need."
His gaze did not shift.
"They were not. Instead — the Ashenmoon vials and approximately fifty grams of Black Widow were transferred to a classified asset under the Bureau managing affairs of the Inner Vale. No monster. No field deployment. No justifiable need on record."
"And the Black Iron equipment — distributed to high-ranking knights, all rank six or above. The justification: equipment logged under Vale asset training, set to be repossessed seven days from now."
His voice remained even.
"Weapons exclusively assigned to operatives of the Hand, due to their capability to cause permanent damage to highblood physiology. Labelled temporary training equipment."
Silence held.
What a stubborn crown.
"And if we look further — beyond the misappropriated weapons and toxins — to the human resource distribution of the Iron Veil on the twenty-fourth?"
His eyes moved across the list, singling out the most damning.
"Three vassal knights of the Justicar rank — assigned to hold the reserved grounds of the White Lotus. My first fixed stop, which already constitutes the greater part of my claim."
"Two workers — instructed to wear hyper-filtration gear to address a bloodmoss infestation within the Frog Creeks before the ninth hour."
He let that settle.
"The only bathing grounds I have used for twenty-seven consecutive days — without noticing any trace of bloodmoss. No distinct foul smell of rotting corpse. No characteristic bloody water."
"Perhaps it appeared on the twenty-third, after my leave — unlikely, but not impossible, if a wounded highblood mistakenly bled somewhere within the creeks."
"But what of the hyper-filtration?" His voice lowered, precise. "Foul as bloodmoss may be, I have never once encountered its clearing requiring such measures — not unless the substance in question is particulate. Airborne. Hazardous upon inhalation."
Bloodmoth powder.
The same substance the Iron Veil commissioned.
"A substance that, in high season — when the Sanguinis moths emerge from their cocoons — turns the titan ridges of the North into a blood-basin. Drake populations enter a frenzy. Containment becomes long-distance bombardment operations, driven by hyper-aggression and resistance to all engagement."
"Although the effect on civilised beings is negligible under normal conditions — the viability changes when the powder comes into contact with heat and moisture. A relevant fact, given that the Frog Creeks is a hot spring — which would convert even trace amounts into a hallucinogenic vapour known to strip the strongest will down to bare instinct."
His gaze moved across the thrones.
"A few grams render the effect viable. The Iron Veil commissioned an entire quarter-measure — on the same day a bloodmoss infestation materialised in the only bathing grounds I have used for twenty-seven consecutive days."
Silence held.
No clarity required.
"Whether assumption or verified fact — the pattern holds at my third fixed stop of the day. The Grey Bore feasting halls."
"Twenty knights of Justicar rank and above — all from the Iron Veil — assigned meal rotations between the tenth and eleventh-and-a-half hour. The precise window in which I enter the halls to eat."
"Along the corridors leading to the Grey Bore — seven additional Iron Veil knights. All repositioned. All within proximity of the hall."
"And within the southern and northern towers, commanding direct sightlines — six long-range archers."
He let that settle.
"From count alone, that is the precise number of knights and archers distributed Black Iron on the twenty-fourth."
"Coincidence — not under deeper assessment."
"Two types of poison already distributed to assets with direct access to the food served to Mantle-bearers — one a fast-acting agent, another designed to mask traces of the first."
Silence pressed inward.
"Trained personnel. Highblood-killing weapons. Classified toxins with access to the food supply."
"All converging. On the same day. At the same location. Within the same hour I would have walked through its doors."