The south infirmary smelled like soap and pine. Saintess Liora stood at the head table with a stack of forms and a box of inked stamps. Platinum hair tied back. Soft blue eyes steady, not warm, not cold.
"Plain language," she said. "Facts only. If you speculate, I make you rewrite. If you dramatize, I make you read it aloud to the ward."
We took seats. I wrote what happened, line by line. Loose bolt in Gate Six's track; I lowered the tooth a finger to startle the leaper; vent vane stuck; Hollow tapped it; Cael set the floor with aura; I used point only; ward net closed; no injuries. I added time marks where I remembered them. I did not write what I guessed.
I handed the sheet over. Liora read, tapped one knuckle on the line about the point, and stamped. "Next time," she said, "call your point earlier. The wall hears better than I do."
"Yes, Saintess."
