"Char line runs diagonal. Heat bloom from below, not above. That's ground tar. The grit inside the pot lip—river sand and kiln soot. Mixed here, not brought from elsewhere."
A low murmur rippled through the envoys. The Serewyn man shifted, composure bending just a hair.
Aelthrin stepped back to the canvas and began to draw clean lines with chalk, each stroke an accusation. "Messenger timings. Assaults spike when river traffic thickens. Not when military advantage would be best."
He paused, marking the gap between two days. "They prefer an audience," he said quietly.
The words hung like smoke in the tent.
Elowen's eyes narrowed slightly. Her voice was calm, but there was iron underneath. "They're not just crossing," she said. "They're performing."
