Renn found him at seventh bell.
The tea was cold. The report was open to the same page — the Caskrunner injury-retroactivity petition, filed eleven months ago, deferred through three administrative review cycles, still pending. His hand was on the page. His reading spectacles — the pair he'd started using in Emberdusk, the ones with the thin iron frames that his predecessor had designed thirty years ago, which sat on his nose with the weight of two small coins and which he cleaned every morning with the southwest corner of his undershirt because the cloth there was the softest — were still on his face.
He had not moved.
