The first formal surrender came at the eastern palace gate just before dawn.
A White Spire captain stepped out under a plain white cloth, hands empty, armor stripped of every rank marking. Behind him a full company of cadre stood in ordered ranks with weapons grounded.
Their faces were set, but the lines of exhaustion showed under the torchlight that still burned along the wall. When Atlas approached, the captain dropped to one knee without being ordered.
"We recognize the bloodline," the man said. His voice was steady but drained of anything like hope. "The Wizard King claimed the seat by force and by necessity. He was never the chosen. You were. The Spire yields."
Atlas looked past him at the ranks. No one moved. No one raised a weapon or shifted stance. The decision had already traveled through every remaining command channel that still functioned.
