The feather hovered and waited above the table.
The scroll beneath it bore a single name–
Aizrel.
Hylisi's chest tightened.
The gap before her pulsed faintly, the image within sharpening until Aizrel's figure stood in merciless clarity. Every breath. Every shift of muscle. The chamber magnified it all, and with it came a low, creeping pressure–a thin whistle that crawled along the edges of Hylisi's hearing.
A drop of sweat slid from her temple to her chin.
Not from heat, but from weight–
The value of what she was about to write was not ink.
It was life and death.
Memories surged unbidden–brief, sharp fragments rather than scenes. A young lady's survival bought with precision, not mercy. One assessment after another, endured without ever asking why the path kept narrowing.
Her hands trembled.
Not because Aizrel's fate rested in her judgment.
But because this position did.
Regret surfaced–raw and sudden.
She had guided them here.
