The televox screen showed a logistics map.

Red lines. Blue lines. Rail junctions and roads.

Kimia blinked.

For half a second the lines became something else.

Drainage grooves. Stone.

She looked up.

The hall was gone.

Not gone.

Overlaid.

An abattoir.

White tile stained dark between seams. Hooks hanging overhead. A long drainage channel cut through the central aisle. Something wet reflected light beneath the tables. People remained seated.

No.

Carcasses remained seated.

No.

Kimia knew what this was.

Immediately.

That helped.

She did not move.

The chairman's voice continued.

“.. request a revised estimate from the Val Salian Royal Army's General Staff before tomorrow's session.”

Kimia looked at his hands.

Human hands.

Alive.

No blood.

The microphone became a hanging hook.

No.

Microphone.

She pressed one claw into the pad of her thumb.

Pain. Small. Real.

The abattoir persisted at the edge of vision.

A smell almost came with it.

Iron. Fat. Hot water.

Kimia breathed through her nose.

Nothing.

Only the hall. Paper. People. Coffee somewhere. Fabric.

She looked down.

One. Two. Three. Gold stitches.

The stone drainage channel retreated. Tables returned. The hooks became lights. The wet floor dried.

There.

Gone.

No one had noticed.

Perhaps Tarkhe would have.

Tarkhe was not sitting beside her.

Good.

Bad.

She took water.

Slowly.

The chairman continued.

Someone from Brinnilee was speaking now.

Kimia had missed the beginning.

She listened until the words acquired order again.

“.. therefore our estimate is that economic pressure will remain the primary instrument used by Eauritsstad in the immediate future.”

The chairman nodded.

Then looked toward the Peshtulan section.

Kimia felt something happen.

A shift.

Not hallucination.

Attention.

Her name appeared on the televox screen beneath the regional delegation list.

DUCHESS KIMIA - HOUSE CHITYALA

There.

Her turn.

The microphone before her suddenly looked enormous.

The actor rose.

Not from somewhere false.
 
From somewhere practiced.

Kimia touched the switch. A small indicator illuminated.

The chairman said: “Your Grace. House Chityala's assessment?”

She looked toward the map.

The rope.

That was all she needed.

Not a speech.

An image. Weight. Fibers. Tension.

Kimia leaned toward the microphone.

“Zhe situation will deteriorate over time and eventually become an international incident.”

The sentence went into the room.

No hesitation.

The chairman waited.

“Could you substantiate that?”

“Yes.”

Kimia folded her hands.

“We're treating several developments as separate because administratively zhey are separate.”

She looked toward the screen.

“Money leaving Olissingen. Families leaving. Increased irregular activity. Reinforced patrols. Sabotage against infrastructure. Military readiness measures. Delayed mobilization timetables. None of zhese alone means war.”

She paused.

“But zhey all place weight on zhe same system.”

The room listened.

Kimia continued.

“I zhink of it as a rope carrying more zhan it was designed to hold.”

There.

The image sounded almost embarrassingly simple spoken aloud.

She used it anyway.

“A rope does not fail because one fiber breaks. Fibers break constantly. It fails because enough break while zhe weight stays.”

Someone from Dinnlan leaned toward their microphone.

“What do you identify as zhe weight?”

Kimia looked toward him.

“Mutual distrust.”

She thought.

“And political necessity.”

The Dinnish delegate frowned.

“Explain that distinction.”