Adventure of Frieda 1

Rain needles the courtyard as Frieda reaches the outer arch. The archive lamp gutters above her, throwing weak light over the wet stones.

The Armored Man steps out of the passage, hand resting on his sword hilt. Two silent soldiers spread beside him, sealing the dark throat of the arch.

The escorting guards slow, then stop. One shifts his spear uneasily, eyes flicking toward the magistrate’s doorway behind Frieda.

Frieda is within a few steps of the passage, the sealed evidence still on its way to the court. If the men at the arch take it, Bishop Eisenfaust gains the delay he needs.

Frieda’s voice cuts through the rain and the archway answers. The escorting guards straighten at once, and one of the men in the dark passage turns his head toward the courtyard gate, startled by the command.

A distant shout carries from within the magistrate’s hall, then boots scrape on stone. The soldiers at the arch shift their footing, no longer certain whether they are blocking a courier or a lawful alarm.

Ulrich drives the order home, and Guard One breaks from his hesitation to move for the doorway. The Armored Man does not draw steel, but his hand tightens on the hilt as his line wavers.

The packet stays with Frieda as the couriers and witnesses close ranks around her, the seal still visible above wet fingers. In the hall behind them, the record is being called for even as the arch is being challenged.

Rain needles the courtyard as the armored man’s caution breaks. He lifts one empty hand, palm out, and takes a single step back from the arch. The soldiers behind him glance toward the hall, then toward Frieda’s seal, as if the parchment itself has become a witness.

The way he says it turns the blockade inside out. One soldier lowers his chin. Another shifts aside, opening a narrow gap under the arch just wide enough for a single person to pass with care.

Ulrich moves in close, not touching the seal, but shielding it with his shoulder as he gestures Frieda forward. Guard One stops at the doorway and looks back, waiting for the formal word that will make this lawful.

The seal stays high, steady in Frieda’s hands, while the men at the arch part just enough to let her through. Behind them, the clerk’s distant voice carries from the hall, still insisting the record be finished.