Merrit remembered the prayer runner's face after the halfway bell.
That timing was not accidental.
Nothing in the Territorial Ethics Simulation was accidental anymore. Not the false mercy tally. Not the hidden route beneath Gold. Not the archive bell swallowing attention from behind a sealed door. Not the public line that had named Seraphina's assassination-risk pattern in front of every faction with ambition and a working memory.
Merrit sat on a low chapel cot with his bandaged arm against his chest and gray twine still visible beneath the cloth.
Seraphina crouched in front of him.
Caldus stood to her left with the patient-visible tally slate and the doctrinal log.
Aiden held cooperative light low behind them, not touching anyone unless asked.
Yoren Dall stood at the chapel boundary with a face smooth enough to count as practiced prayer.
