I lay back in my chair, staring at the ceiling of the Red Chalice's High Office.
Same hairline cracks as always. The old building breathes with the city—vent hum, far siren, the buzz of wardlines in the walls. We are on Earth, under everyone's noses, and no one sees the knife.
A knock. My brother pushed in before I answered, arms full of folders.
"Elder Sister," he said, trying for brisk and landing on anxious. "Deputy reports. Stipends. Shrine audits. Three complaints about you ignoring the last packet I brought."
"Corner," I said, not moving.
He set the stack where I pointed, fussed the edges square, then looked at me the way he did when we were children and I climbed too high in the storm tree.
"Aly," he tried again, softer. "We need your signature on the exarch rotations. If we don't cycle the border chapels, people think we've abandoned them."
"We haven't," I said.
"I know. They don't." He hesitated. "And… Arthur?"
"Always," I said.
