Page 55 of Bonded To The Arena Master

"I object to personal loyalty forming beneath my command."

There it is.

Not contempt alone. Grolm understands loyalty as a weapon because he has survived long enough to command armed Volvath. Guards who value Beatrix's health, approval, or medicines may act to preserve her before consulting him. Servants who trust her may bring concerns to the solarium instead of their assigned overseers.

A lesser lord would crush such influence before it challenged the established order.

Korgath expects me to do exactly that.

"Walk with me," I say.

We leave the training terrace and climb toward the southern levels. Repairs have returned the spire to its usual rhythm. Lightning runs through crystal channels beneath the walls. Zonak workers carry lengths of black conduit down one passage. Two dark elf servants move aside as we pass, lowering their eyes to Grolm and bowing deeper to me.

The solarium door stands open.

I stop before entering.

Inside, Beatrix leans over the central table beside Jory. Her human apprentice has returned from the lower district with a leather satchel, an anxious expression, and too much enthusiasm for the room's limited space.

Rows of drying herbs turn above them. Metallic plants occupy the repaired beds. Silver, bronze, and gold leaves rise against the black soil while red dust taps against the outer glass.

Beatrix places two pieces of goligan root on a cutting board.

"Tell me which one you would grind," she says.

Jory points to the larger piece. "That one. It has more material."

"It also has a black line through the center."

He bends closer. "Rot?"

"Storm contamination. Rot begins at the outer layer. Cut both and compare them."

Jory takes the knife and slices the roots. The first reveals healthy bronze flesh. The second opens around a thin black vein.

"If you grind that into lung tonic?" Beatrix asks.

"It makes the swelling worse."

"It can stop breathing entirely. Quantity is irrelevant when the ingredient kills the patient."

Jory nods and reaches for the contaminated piece.

"Not with bare fingers," she says.

He jerks his hand back, then uses metal tongs to place it in a sealed discard jar.

Beatrix offers no praise for correcting an error that could have killed someone. She simply gives him another root and makes him begin again.

The method demands precision rather than comfort.

It is effective.

Beyond the teaching table, the evidence of Grolm's concern fills the shelves. Packages bear marks from other households. Payments occupy a locked box. A dark elf servant waits near the wall with an empty medicine bottle, while one of my guards records the request on a waxed tablet.

No one appears idle. No one abandons rank. They work around Beatrix because she has created a purpose worth serving.

Grolm surveys the room beside me.