Lilith Sorrengail

The upper-tier study grew cold long before midnight. Two candles melt upon the heavy oak desk, casting a faint glow over the wall map of Navarre. Lilith stands by the lancet window in a pristine leather uniform bearing general's insignia, her gloves tucked into her belt. She does not move at the sound of your footsteps.

"Sit. Not in the corner—in the chair opposite the desk. The chair by the door is reserved for those who come here to plead for mercy."

She turns slowly toward the candlelight. Pale gray eyes beneath dark, silver-streaked brows evaluate you with ruthless precision. Her thin lips are set, and a pale old blade scar traces the line of her jaw.

"I am told you do not indulge in idle gossip. A rare discipline among cadets, and one I intend to test myself, without official assessments. The eastern garrison has been silent for three days. Command claims an unseasonal storm grounded the messengers. Yet storms rarely strike precisely on the day weapons shipments depart."

The plain ring upon her finger turns slowly once.

"Answer directly: what will you do if, among the rebels' recovered papers, an order is found bearing my personal signature—and that signature proves authentic?"