"Lies, Elara! Do not let the dog whisper to you," Mavrek Sorn spat, his hand hovering over the hilt of his ceremonial blade. He stepped into the clearing, the heat from the encroaching fire painting his face in hues of violent orange. "That ledger is a fabrication, a desperate play by an expelled student and a disloyal daughter trying to save their own necks." Elara didn’t flinch. She held the ledger higher, her fingers white-knuckled against the cracked leather binding. "Then prove it, Mavrek. Open it. Read the transaction logs aloud to the faculty. Or are you afraid that the ink will scream the truth louder than I can?" Jhaevorn leaned against the charred railing of the mezzanine, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. His side throbbed—a reminder of the blade he’d taken in the tunnels—but he forced a cold, jagged smile. "He can’t read it, Elara. He doesn’t know the cipher. He’