Page 13 of Zenith Tower

“Because self-report is not sufficient.”

Kieran had spent years recording the pain and the shrinking intervals between each change. Marrow called all of it self-report.

“Who performs the measure?” Caspian asked.

“I will arrange it.”

“Who reviews your decision?”

Marrow met his gaze. “No one in this building.”

The woman at the center did not correct him.

Water moved somewhere inside the walls. The sound was faint but constant beneath the silence at our table.

Kieran released the edge of the table one finger at a time. When he spoke again, there was no trace of charm in his voice.

“Will your independent measure change whether you treat me?”

The reader with the leather case answered. “It will determine what treatment the Tower authorizes.”

“And until then?”

“You will receive another draught if the respiratory spasm returns.”

Hale leaned forward. “After it returns.”

She looked at him. “Pull the cord at the onset of symptoms.”

“We did.”

No one across the table answered.

The woman from the bridge closed the page with our names on it. “The initial joint review is concluded.”

The stewards came forward.

Kieran pushed his chair back and tried to stand before Hale could help him. His knees held, but only just. Hale rose beside him without touching until Kieran reached for his arm.

As we turned toward the door, I looked back at the closed page on the table.

Our request had been recorded. So had the delay, the spasm, and the medicine that made Kieran fit to question.

None of it had made them treat him.

Kieran

Ihad rehearsed.

I had prepared for questions about the Tether, the bond, the particular indignity of having my shoulder discussed by strangers while I sat close enough to hear them turn pages. I had even prepared for Marrow to refuse treatment. Refusal was familiar territory. I knew how to smile through it.

I had not prepared for him to take my records.

Hale kept one arm around me on the walk back. I allowed it because the draught had left the corridor soft at the edges and because falling in front of the stewards would have been difficult to make charming. Astra and Caspian followed close behind. Whenever the green-gold line burned brighter beneath my shirt, Astra’s steps quickened.

At the first turn, I said, “You can stop glaring at my back. It hasn’t done anything to you.”

“I’m glaring at Marrow,” she said.