Zay set a blank sheet of parchment on the long table. The crescent moon on the runner stared up at him. He had recruits coming tomorrow night, and nothing yet to hand them. A city lived in his head, an Order with it, but neither would hold without words a stranger could carry home. He tried to write alone and failed. Every line sounded like a speech. He stood, pulled his coat on, and walked to the tavern down the path. Trogdor sat at the worn bar, one hand on a cup he had not lifted. Zay slid the blank page between them. "They'll drift," he said. "Unless we name what we are." Trogdor read the empty page. He set down three coins in a row. "Honest work." He tapped the first. "Honest protection." The second. "Honest leadership." The third. Then he pushed all three toward Zay. "And the people before the stones. That's the line. Break it and you're out." Zay wrote it down. Four lines. A charter short enough to memorize, hard enough to fail. They carried it back to the cottage and laid it on the table beneath the crescent. By dawn Zay had cut small tokens from dark cloth, each stitched with a thin white moon — one for every recruit who would say the words back and mean them. The charter was real now. So was the test. Tomorrow he would learn who could hold it, and who would hand the token back.