“Evelyn, I will kneel until you listen.” Riley dropped to the stone before the dais as if the floor itself could root her stubbornness in place. The hall hushed to the scrape of sandals. Gilded banners hung still. Candles guttered. Grandmother Evelyn’s hands paused over the morning docket; the old woman’s gaze slid from the courtier at her elbow to the girl on the floor and did not leave. “Riley.” Gideon’s voice, sharp enough to cut wax. “Rise.” Riley did not. She bowed her head lower. “Grandmother, three months. Clearmont Peace Temple. I request sanctuary and time to tend the Sinclair endowments there, in person. I will—” “You will what?” Margot’s voice, thin with alarm. “Leave the house while negotiations stall? The court expects us to reforge the alliance—” “Not stall.” Riley’s hand rose. She did not look at her parents. She looked at Evelyn. “Stabilize. Reassure our partners in Harbor and Riverside. I will return within three months with accounts settled and a program for the charitable wards. I will not vanish.” A murmur moved through the attendants like wind through reeds. A steward coughed. A young footman reached for the hem of Riley’s sleeve and withdrew his hand again as if afraid to touch an argument. Evelyn set down the quill and stood very still. The old matriarch’s face had the same calm that had broken markets and settled disputes. Her voice, when it came, belonged to the years of battles