Gribbet Thornmarsh adjusted his collar for the third time that hour and checked the clock above the door. The Keeper had postponed twice already. Each delay pushed him closer to the edge of his provisional exemption. Without Council approval, his magic license would expire. Without a license, everything he'd built would collapse. He needed this seat. Not just to break the curse that twisted horns from his skull. Not just to prove he belonged. He needed it to survive. He stepped outside to clear his head. The tower loomed above him, its walls made of shadow that shifted like smoke but held solid as stone. At its base stood the monument — a massive demonic arm wrapped in chains, claws jutting toward the sky. A plaque at its base read: *By Order of the High Council*. No other words. Just the reminder that even demons bent to their authority. Gribbet's own horns ached as he stared at it. The Council had the power to bind anything. Or break it. He returned to the entryway and sat down in the same chair he'd occupied for three days. His briefcase rested against his ankle. Inside were his credentials, his research, his notarized copies. Everything correct. Everything prepared. The Keeper would see him eventually. The system worked if you followed it. It had to. When the door finally opened and a robed figure gestured him forward without a word, Gribbet stood, straightened his coat, and walked through. His patience had earned him this much: a chance.