The report reached my desk at dawn.
It was not marked urgent. Not sealed with crimson wax. Not carried by a breathless messenger with fear in his eyes. It came as part of the morning briefing—stacked neatly between grain tallies and coastal patrol routes, as ordinary as the day itself.
That was what made it dangerous.
I scanned the parchment once, then again, my thumb pausing at the margin where a familiar clause had been cited with surgical precision.
Rule Seventeen, Subclause Four.
Auxiliary observance.
My gaze lifted slowly from the page to Raem Khadir, who stood across from me with his hands folded behind his back, expression neutral, posture impeccable.
"How often," I asked, "is Rule Seventeen enforced?"
Raem did not answer immediately. He did not need to.
"Rarely," he said at last. "Once every few years. Sometimes less."
"And never," I continued, "without cause."
Raem inclined his head slightly. "Correct."
