"I am talking about fifteen percent of your daily take vanishing into the administrative void because your commanding officer does not understand compound depreciation," Cassian said, stepping closer to the improvised barricade with the terrifying confidence of a man who had survived three separate municipal tax rebellions. He flipped open the water-stained ledger, pointing a ink-stained finger at a grease-smudged page. "Look at this column. You are trading looted silver for dry rations at a rate that treats iron bolts as a renewable resource. If you keep this up, your entire company will be bankrupt by Thursday afternoon."The scarred veteran lowered his crossbow entirely, his rough features twisting in a mixture of profound bewilderment and sudden, deep-seated insecurity. "Who told you about the rations? We keep that ledger locked in the Sergeant's footlocker.""A ledger locked in a footlocker is nothing more than a confession of poor planning," Cassian retorted shar

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar cutting across his left cheek stepped out from the gloom, his dark eyes narrowing as they swept over Cassian, Saphielle, and Elsinore."Tax collector?" Marcus muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate against the damp coal pillars. He crossed his massive arms over a chest covered in a soot-stained leather jerkin. "The Grand Council doesn't send tax collectors down into the Sinks. They send executioners with lightning rods.""I am currently unaccredited by the Grand Council," Cassian replied smoothly, adjusting the lapels of his ruined, water-stained blue suit with an air of absolute dignity. "Which means I am free to offer you a much more competitive rate of survival. Put that crossbow away, sergeant. We have a revolution to budget for."Marcus ignored the demand, his gaze shifting past Cassian to fix entirely on the silent figure standing beside him. The rebel leader’s breath hitched.

"Municipal clean-up crews don't wear velvet waistcoats, Cassian, and they certainly don't carry their ledgers like sacred texts," Saphielle muttered under her breath, pulling the coarse, gray wool tunic tight across her shoulders. The fabric itched fiercely, smelling faintly of damp cellar walls and dried tobacco."Dignity is a state of mind, Saphielle, not a wardrobe choice," Cassian shot back without missing a beat, adjusting his ill-fitting canvas cap so it cast a deep shadow over his brow. He clutched his leather-bound ledger tightly against his chest, right beneath a canvas sack filled with industrial-grade scrubbing brushes and lye soap. "Besides, in a bureaucracy as bloated and inefficient as Oakhaven’s Municipal Archives, a man who looks like he's about to aggressively reorganize your filing system is completely invisible. Everyone simply looks away to avoid additional paperwork.""He's right," Elsinore chimed in, his milky eyes staring blankly at the tow

"Halt! State your department, employee identification number, and the specific archival requisition code authorizing your presence in the restricted western wing," Head Librarian Abraham demanded, slamming a massive, leather-bound register onto his mahogany podium with a force that sent a small cloud of ancient dust billowing into the air.Cassian didn't even blink. He stopped three paces from the towering podium, squaring his shoulders beneath the itchy gray wool tunic with an air of such absolute, unyielding administrative authority that Abraham actually paused, his pen hovering menacingly over a pool of black ink."Department of Foundational Ledger Integrity and Subterranean Records, Sub-Division Four," Cassian replied smoothly, his voice ringing with the crisp, chilling precision of a man who spent his entire life auditing corrupt municipal expenditures. "Identification number OAK-774-C. As for the requisition code, it's Form 88-B, amended twice by emergency decree

"Supersede seasonal recessions or not, you are standing in a restricted zone!" Head Librarian Abraham roared, his voice cracking with righteous fury as he leaned completely across the wide mahogany podium, his fingers clawing at the edge of the wood. "I have managed these archives for thirty-eight years without a single administrative infraction, and I will not have some rogue clerk from Sub-Division Four waltzing in here with a ledger and a bad attitude to—""Abraham," Cassian interrupted, his tone dropping into a chillingly calm, flat register that stopped the older man dead in his tracks. Cassian did not raise his voice; he merely stepped closer, tapped the corner of his leather-bound ledger against the polished wood of the desk, and stared directly into the librarian's panicked eyes. "Your cross-referencing indices are filed under the wrong fiscal year. Every single document in the eastern and western wings is currently misclassified by at least four decades. Do you