Moonlight cuts the cloisters into hard silver lanes. Prayer chains sway overhead, broken saints lie in the dark, and a thin skin of incense oil turns the floor into a mirror. Two robed figures are already moving for the delegation doors, one slipping shadows into the locks, the other clutching forged evidence close to his chest. A tribunal envoy stands between them and the far arch, blade out, face tight with suspicion, one wrong word from turning this into a massacre.