Chapter 29-Authority

Odett’s POV

  The first practice hearing began two days after the assessment announcement. Our instructor had turned the classroom around: three desks faced a lone table by the windows, with two narrow chairs behind it. I stopped in the doorway. The chairs looked as if they were waiting for a confession.

  “Those chairs are meant to make us nervous,” I said.

  “It is working,” he replied.

  Nolan passed us with a stack of question cards pressed against his chest. Cassian followed with the timing bell and the expression of someone grateful that another team had been selected first.

  Our instructor closed the door after the last student entered.

  “The formal leadership hearing will test your ability to defend the laws, protections, and command structure in your proposed community,” she explained.

  “Today will show you where your answers weaken when someone questions them.”

  She pointed toward the three desks. Two instructors from the diplomacy division sat beside a fifth-year student chosen from another class. The student already had our proposal open to the section Joshy and I had revised the night before.

  “Why does that look like the face people make before an execution?” I whispered.

  “Because you described the announcement that way, and now everything looks like an execution to you,” Joshy replied with dry amusement while pulling out the chair beside mine.

  The first team lasted twelve minutes. Its three pack leaders could overrule the community council during any declared emergency. The panel kept asking one question: who decided when the emergency was over?

  Every student marked something in their own emergency rules as the team sat down. I underlined the review period Joshy and I had shortened the night before. He saw me do it, but neither of us spoke until our names were called.

  We carried one clean copy of our proposal to the front. Our marked copy remained on the desk behind us because the panel wanted the plan we had officially submitted at the beginning of the term. That version still gave our emergency council seven days before its first required review.

  “Your community council reserves seats for wolves, vampires, witches, fairies, and humans.”

  “What happens when one group believes the leaders consistently dismiss its concerns?” the student panelist asked evenly after studying the member list.

  “Any representative may request a recorded response from the pack leaders,” I answered with measured confidence while folding my hands beneath the table.

  “The leaders must explain the decision, identify who carries the greatest risk, and state what protection is being offered.”

  “That explains the decision after it is made,” she observed.

  “How does the representative affect it before then?” she asked pointedly.

  “We revised that section yesterday,” Joshy answered with cautious confidence as he leaned forward.

  “A representative may delay one decision long enough for a safety review, although the delay cannot prevent an immediate response to a direct threat.”

  The panelist wrote something in the margin. Her expression did not reveal whether the change helped us or gave her a better question. I resisted the urge to fill the silence for her.

  “Your leaders may restrict travel, redirect supplies, and temporarily close community facilities.”

  “What standard of information must they meet before using those powers?” one diplomacy instructor asked with deliberate scrutiny after turning to the emergency section.

  Our submitted proposal had no answer. It called for written reasons and a council vote, yet never said how those reasons would be checked. Joshy looked at me; he had found the gap too.

  “They should need confirmed information,” I answered.

  “A storm destroys the eastern bridge.”

  “Two guards report that the western road is failing, but neither has inspected it personally.”

  “Do your leaders wait for confirmation before closing the road?” the instructor challenged calmly while resting his finger on the page.

  “No,” I replied.

  “They close it until someone can inspect the damage.”

  “Then confirmed information is not your standard,” the instructor corrected without hesitation.

  Heat rushed into my face as pencils scratched behind us. I could close a dangerous road before anyone was hurt. I could also imagine a leader closing every road because of a rumor. I had written one rule for both situations, and it failed them both.

  Lorilie shifted inside my mind. ‘You are trying to find one answer for two different dangers.’

  I looked down at our clean copy. For an instant I thought of the redacted requests in Dad’s office, where the difference between a report and a verified record mattered. Those files were not mine to discuss here, but the lesson was.

  “The standard should depend on what the order does and how long it lasts,” Joshy said with thoughtful caution while tapping one finger against the table.

  “Closing one road for an hour while guards inspect it is different from restricting every resident’s travel for seven days.”

  “Who decides which restriction is narrow enough to require less proof?” the instructor asked as he turned his attention toward Joshy.

  “The emergency council makes the first decision, but they have to use the least restrictive option that addresses the reported danger,” Joshy answered.

  “Anything broader requires verification or immediate review from the community council.”

  Joshy was right. We had spent weeks deciding who could issue an emergency order without limiting what that order could do. A road closure and a restriction on every resident’s travel had ended up beneath the same heading.

  “Every unverified order should expire quickly unless new information supports it,” I added.

  “The written reason must also state what is known, what is only reported, and what still needs to be checked.”

  “That is a defensible standard.”

  “It is not the standard written in the proposal you submitted,” the diplomacy instructor replied with measured approval after removing his hand from the page.

  “We know,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “You will be permitted to submit revisions before the formal hearing.”

  “You will also be expected to explain why the original rule failed,” the student panelist said.

  Crossing out the bad rule was easy. Standing in front of our instructors and admitting how sure I’d been when I wrote it was going to be awful. Joshy’s knee touched mine under the table. I looked down at the revision and tried to work out how to explain it without sounding as if I was making excuses.

  The second diplomacy instructor opened to our leadership succession plan. She asked how temporary leaders were selected, whether mates could serve on the same emergency council, and who assumed command if both pack leaders were injured. Joshy and I divided the answers without interrupting each other.

  Then the panel gave us people instead of tidy positions. A healer could not leave patients for every vote. A vampire representative might be delayed by daylight travel. A human representative could not hear a warning carried by the pack mindlink. Our alternate seats needed rules we had never written.

  We had included alternate representatives but had not defined when an alternate gained full voting authority. That flaw joined the growing list beside my elbow. By the time the bell rang, the clean proposal no longer felt clean.

  “You defended the purpose of your council better than its procedures.”