Morning came to the Black Wing Chamber. Not that the sun rose. The *meito*—the luminescent phenomenon of miasma—mimicked dawn by intensifying its purple glow. That light was absorbed by the dark crystal walls, illuminating the forty-seat oval table. No one sat at any of them. Radius placed the final sheet on the final chair. A frame 195 centimeters tall. A jet-black robe with dark crystal ornaments that reflected silver light. Silver hair bound at the back swayed with each movement, causing the blue magical seal on his forehead to flicker faintly. Across his back, beneath the robe, the faint outline of black wings—or rather, the trace of where wings once were—hovered like a phantom. Deep violet irises slowly swept across the stack of documents he'd just arranged, from one end to the other. Forty sheets. All printed by him. All folded by him. All distributed by him. Radius pulled out the head chair and sat. He placed both hands on the desk. He looked at the door. The scheduled s