The heavy oak doors of the abandoned granary swung open with a shriek of rusted iron, admitting three figures draped in expensive, ink-stained velvet that looked entirely out of place in the damp ruins of the lower wards. Oryndel didn't lower the master plate clutched against his chest. He planted his boots firmly on the grimy floorboards, his gaze locking onto the man at the front—Master Orlof, a corpulent silk merchant whose rings gleamed even in the dismal, torch-lit gloom. "You’re late," Oryndel said, his voice flat, devoid of the deference a common clerk once owed a guild master. "The Faith Militant burned our press four hours ago. If you’d come when the message was dropped, we’d have three thousand more broadsheets circulating through the market square right now." Orlof flinched, his jowls trembling as he pulled a silk handkerchief from his sleeve to dab at a bead of sweat on his forehead. "Mind your tone, clerk. We risked our necks just dodging the garrison pat

"The gold isn't in the sub-vaults," a dry, clipped voice echoed from the shadowed archway of the subterranean ledger room. "It never was, Master Clerk." Oryndel froze, his fingers hovering over the heavy brass clasp of the master ledger resting on the mahogany desk. He didn't need to turn around to recognize the voice. It carried the chilling, effortless authority of a man who had bled Oakhaven dry for a decade. "Drevian," Oryndel whispered, his throat tightening as his muscles locked into a defensive spring. "Minister Solk, to you," Drevian Solk stepped out from the gloom, his midnight-blue velvet doublet uncreased, his silver-knobbed cane tapping a measured, rhythmic beat against the cold flagstones. He wasn't alone. Four heavily armored guards fanned out behind him, their broadswords catching the amber flicker of the single remaining wall sconce. "Though I suppose titles matter very little when you're standing in a room you'll never leave alive." Oryndel kept

"Grab his other arm before he stops coughing!" Tervik barked, his face slick with sweat as he wrenched Finance Minister Drevian Solk up by his velvet collar.Solk choked, his immaculate doublet tearing with a sharp rip under the old smuggler's iron grip. "Unhand me, you filthy river-rat! The guards will flay you alive for this before the noon bell!""The guards are currently tied up in the sub-vaults taking a very long nap," Oryndel snapped, slamming the heavy brass clasp of the master ledger shut with a resounding thud. He swung the leather satchel over his shoulder, his eyes hard and unyielding. "And as for the noon bell, Minister, you won't be hearing it from a balcony. You'll be hearing it from the prisoner's dock.""You think a mob trial on the courthouse steps will save you?" Solk snarled, his face purple with rage as he tried to plant his polished boots against the flagstones. "The city is under martial law! The Faith Militant controls every stre

"Legal authority?" Oryndel stepped forward, his boots ringing sharply against the stone steps of the courthouse as he hoisted the heavy leather-bound ledger into the morning light. "The only authority you and your temple lapdogs ever had was the lie that your greed was the will of the heavens!""Silence, you insolent clerk!" High Priest Zorvik Halden pushed his way through the surging ring of temple guards at the base of the steps, his stark white robes billowing like a gathering storm cloud. His face was twisted into a mask of righteous fury, his hollow eyes locked onto Oryndel with undisguised murder. "This rabble has no jurisdiction over the sacred houses of Oakhaven! The temple answers only to the divine order, not to the math of starving beggars!""Divine order?" Tervik barked a harsh, bitter laugh from beside Solk, shoving the trembling Finance Minister down onto his knees with a dull thud. "Is that what you call hoarding three granaries worth of winter wheat in the crypts while

"I’m leaving the coat, Oryndel. The mothballs won’t save the wool, and the smell of the lower wards is baked right into the lining."Tervik dropped a heavy, oil-stained bundle onto the mahogany bench by the door, his bad shoulder twitching with a familiar, dull ache. The old smuggler looked remarkably small without his salt-crusted cloak, wearing a clean, coarse-linen tunic that didn't quite hide the jagged, fading scar across his collarbone.Oryndel didn't look up from the thick stack of municipal requisitions spread across his desk. "The coat is a historical artifact of our financial ruin, Tervik. It belongs in the archives next to Solk's falsified balance sheets.""History can freeze then," Tervik grunted, pulling a flat leather flask from his belt and taking a sharp, burning pull of river-distilled spirits. "The boat leaves the south pier at high tide. I’m not spending another autumn in Oakhaven waiting for a new batch of tax-collecting bas