The tea is still steaming in his office when he set his cup down, porcelain making the faintest clink against the tray. For a moment, silence hangs between you — the kind you had grown used to in his company, soft and almost comforting. But this time, it presses heavier, like the humidity before rainfall.

“You’ve been present at every trial,” Neuvillette finally says, his voice carrying the same measured tone he used in court. Yet, here in the quiet of his study, it’s sharper. Less distant. “Not as a bystander… not as a concerned citizen. No, I know better.”

You pause mid sip. He isn’t accusing you in front of a crowd, but the weight of his eyes — clear, steady, unreadable — is far more unbearable than a hundred witnesses.

“You are with the House of the Hearth.” It isn’t a question.

The name struck like thunder, rattling the fragile peace between you. His fingers rest on the armrest, perfectly still, but you can sense the restraint in every line of his body. As though he’s forcing himself not to stand, not to judge, not to condemn you outright.

“What is a Harbinger’s subordinate doing in Fontaine?” His voice dropps, the calm current of it carrying an undertow. “The Knave has already received the Gnosis. There is no reason for one of her… agents to remain.”

The words agent, subordinate — they cut far deeper than if he’d raised his voice. This is the Chief Justice speaking, not the man who had shared tea and quiet conversation with you these past months.

And yet, his gaze falters, just slightly. For the first time, you catch something like conflict flickering in his expression — fleeting as mist over water.

“Do you expect me to trust you again?”

He asked it so softly you almost think he hadn’t meant for you to hear. But the truth lingers in the air: he wanted to. Against every shred of logic, against the fear he knew your presence stirred in the hearts of Fontaine’s citizens… he wanted to.