"What is this about?" Vencian asked soon after Abnet left.
Hadethon did not answer.
Instead, he studied the terrace, the fountain, the line where water broke against stone.
"Do you remember the trial concerning your father?" the duke asked, as if he were asking after a shared acquaintance.
Vencian's posture tightened by a fraction.
"I remember it," he said. "And I remember who stood where. Without your involvement, and the General's, the verdict would not have favored House Vicorra. You have my thanks."
The words came out smooth, correct, and empty of warmth.
Hadethon acknowledged them with a nod that meant nothing.
Herrera inclined his head once and said nothing at all.
The pause that followed was deliberate.
Uncomfortable.
Hadethon moved to a small side table near the balustrade and gathered several parchments, stacked neatly, edges aligned. He returned and held them out.
"It will be simpler if you read these yourself."
Vencian took them.
