Not storm.
Not drama.
Just rain.
Soft, steady, patient enough to make stone remember it had once belonged to mountains instead of institutions.
I stood under the east medical wing balcony with a cup in my left hand and no audience.
That had been the plan.
Plans had become increasingly decorative since Volume Two began.
The cup was warm.
Tea.
Ren's blend, adjusted again because I still could not taste properly when the numbness spread too far. Stronger spice. More bitter root. Less floral. Texture instead of flavor. A drink designed for a man losing small senses and pretending bitterness counted as data.
My right hand rested inside the glove at my side.
Useless tonight.
Not fully.
Enough.
The rain silvered the courtyard. Gold Hall's western windows glowed faintly. Obsidian Dormitory remained darker, but not asleep. I could see one servant corridor lamp flicker twice, pause, then once.
Signal.
The oath network had already begun breathing.
Too fast.
Too necessary.
