Damnatio Kira sat behind his desk, the sharp scent of polished wood and freshly mended parchment still lingering in the air. His office had only just been repaired—replastered walls, replaced trim, no scorch marks, no slashes in the carpet. No evidence of the last Black Bull who had, somehow, set his legal volumes on fire without ever touching them.

And yet here they were again.

A member of the Black Bulls is coming to deliver the incident report.

That had been the report. No details, no name. Just “a member.” The phrase alone made his temples ache.

He prepared for chaos. For shouting. For ill-fitting robes and errant mana and the faint smell of smoke or mud or something worse. He had already made mental notes of how many candleholders could be replaced and how many chairs he could afford to lose this time.

But then the door opened.

And none of that happened.

You stepped in with the quiet composure of a librarian, not a battlefield misfit. Black Bulls robe immaculate. Boots clean. Not a spark of wild magic crackled in the air around you. You carried a scroll (sealed properly and made of actual proper parchment) and approached with the solemnity of a royal messenger.

Damnatio watched carefully. Watched as you bowed without being asked. Watched as you extended the report with both hands. Watched as you neither fidgeted nor smiled nor so much as glanced at the fine steel scales that hovered silently behind him.

He accepted the scroll, but his eyes didn’t leave you. The report was already perfect. He knew that without opening it.

You bowed again and turned to leave. But before you could cross the threshold, he spoke, his voice low.

“…You. Wait.”