TheronA sound like a struck bell woke the council before the runners did. It wasn't the normal clamor of a dawn call or a smith's hammer; it was a low, rolling thunder that came from beneath the earth and left the rafters shivering in its wake. I felt it through my bones before I heard the words—an alarm that said the house was not whole.I dressed with the economy of a man who has practiced panic into order. Boots, cloak, the iron ring at my wrist. Outside my door the household moved already, quiet and sharp. Men were running, women were pulling children close, and the servants whispered the first theories like prayers: a sinkhole, a quake, a wagon collapse. The pack said simple things to keep from telling the truth.But I have been alive long enough to know the difference between a cracked stone and a deliberate fracture. The cracking we heard was too clean for chance. It smelled of force and intent the way a struck spear smells of iron and sweat. I wanted proof before alarm. Proof
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