Night at the Thirel docks was a language of its own: creaking ropes, guttural laughter, the slap of oars against river sludge. Lanterns swung like drunkards above moored barges, casting long shadows that slithered over rain-slick planks. Here, in the crook of Vartis’ lower quarter, the city no longer pretended to be noble. It was all piss and brine, sweat and teeth.

  Sheriff Tarl Vandess walked with his hands clasped behind his back, oilskin coat soaked through at the shoulders. His boots left muddy imprints in the dirt, but no one noticed — or cared. The dockwatch patrol followed a few paces behind, silent. Vandess didn’t like crowds, didn’t trust them. He had two good eyes, a scar that never fully healed, and a long memory for faces. That was enough.

  Somewhere in the alley behind the granary, a woman laughed — shrill, forced — then cursed in three languages. A bottle smashed. No one looked.

  “Sir,” came a voice beside him. It was Garran — solid, sharp-eyed, and one of the few Vandess had kept from the old days, before the plague tore through the ranks. “We found it.”

  Vandess stopped walking.

  Garran handed him a small linen pouch, tied with twine and faintly damp. Vandess opened it, slowly. Nestled inside — a grain of frostbitten fire. A raw diamond. Uncut, ugly, and unmistakable.

  “Where?”

  “Barge offloaded before dawn, slipped into the west grain warehouse,” Garran said. “No dock records. Crates were already moved to the inland wagons, but this one split open — by chance. Grain went to rot, and this… was inside.”

  Vandess turned the gem over in his callused hand, studying its jagged gleam under the lamplight. It was heavy with the kind of silence that didn’t come from nature. Someone had smuggled it in, someone bold — or stupid — enough to run diamonds through the dirtiest vein of Vartis.

  “Did you touch anything else?”

  “No, sir. I had the area cleared. Quietly.”

  Vandess gave a single nod. “Good. Burn the sack. Write up a mold report, keep it boring. If anyone asks, we’re tracking spoiled grain. If they press, say the rats are getting bolder.”

  He slipped the diamond back into the pouch, tied it tight, and tucked it beneath his coat.

  Then, almost as an afterthought: “Send word to the palace. I’m coming at first light.”

  Behind them, river fog crawled low over the water like a sleeping beast. The watchmen resumed their rounds. And Vandess, with a fist clenched around a secret worth a dozen heads on pikes, walked back into the waiting dark.

  Morning broke damp and gray across Vartis, the kind of spring morning that tasted of old iron and unspoken things. The palace stirred late, as it often did when no council met — servants moved with soft-footed purpose, and the corridors held their breath in quiet anticipation.

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  Up in the west tower, a fire was already crackling low, trying and failing to chase off the cold. The room was as ever: books stacked like barricades, papers half-sorted across the wide desk, a half-eaten pear abandoned near an inkpot. Gale stood by the window, sleeve rolled, mug of black coffee in hand, watching the twin rivers writhe through the valley mist.

  He turned at the sound of boots on stone.

  “Sheriff Vendess,” he said with a faint nod, no ceremony. “You’re early.”

  “I said I’d come at first light.” Tarl stepped into the room like a man used to rooms that wanted him gone. “You said this was urgent. I agreed.”

  Behind the desk, Fran glanced up from her notes. She hadn’t dressed for court — just a dark gown with sleeves pushed to her elbows, and hair bound back with a copper pin. Her eyes, however, were sharp enough to pierce stone.

  “Sheriff,” she said evenly. “Did you find something?”

  Tarl didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached inside his coat, drew out the linen pouch, and placed it gently on the desk between them.

  Fran looked to Gale before touching it. He gave the smallest nod.

  She untied the twine, opened the cloth — and froze.

  The light hit it just right. Uncut. Heavy. Ugly. Real.

  “A diamond,” she whispered. “Gods.”

  Gale crossed the room, frowning. “Raw. Northern mines, likely. It’s not polished — hasn’t passed through any guild-certified cutters.”

  “How did it reach the docks?” Fran asked, voice low.

  “Hidden in grain sacks.” Tarl’s tone was flat. “One split open during transfer. Lucky spill, if you believe in luck. I don’t.”

  “They were bold enough to run it through Thirel?” Gale muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Either we’ve missed the true scale of this, or someone is getting reckless.”

  “Both,” said Fran, still watching the gem. Her voice had gone quiet.

  Tarl shifted. “I burned the sack. Filed it as a spoilage report. If they check, they’ll find mold. If they dig deeper, I’ll lie better.”

  Fran smiled faintly. “You’re very thorough, Sheriff.”

  “I do my job.”

  A silence followed. One of those silences that wasn’t empty, but taut with thinking.

  Then Gale spoke.

  “I say we move. Now.”

  Fran’s eyes flicked up to him.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for,” he went on. “A physical link. Real smuggled goods. We have routes, we have names, and now we have proof.”

  “It’s not enough,” she said calmly. “Not yet.”

  Gale arched a brow. “You still want more?”

  “I want a trap, not a scandal. If we strike now, we rattle them — maybe expose one, two if we’re lucky. But if we wait, we take them all.”

  “Wait too long, and they scatter.”

  “Strike too soon, and they hide better.”

  Tarl cleared his throat. “Do you two want the room?”

  Fran glanced at him, surprised. “No. You’re part of this now.”

  Tarl folded his arms. “Then I’ll say it plain. This city’s held together by thread, Your Grace. Pull too fast and you’ll rip it in half. Pull too slow…” He tapped the pouch. “You’ll find stones under every street.”

  Fran exhaled slowly. Her hand closed the pouch again.

  “I know,” she murmured. Then, to Gale: “Give me a day.”

  “For what?”

  “To speak with Rhyve.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You’re bringing him in?”

  “I need someone inside the walls. Someone who still carries weight with the palace staff. Someone loyal to Alric, and now to me.”

  “I thought that was me,” Gale said, too lightly.

  She didn’t smile. “You’re something else.”

  He blinked — just once. But said nothing.

  She stood, wrapping the pouch in a fresh cloth. “Thank you, Sheriff. Keep your eyes open, but tell no one.”

  Vandess nodded. “Always, Your Grace.”

  He turned and left, coat flaring slightly as he vanished down the cold stairs.

  Fran didn’t sit back down. She just stood there, quiet, staring at the wrapped pouch on the desk like it might whisper its secrets if left alone long enough.

  Gale watched her a moment longer.

  Then, almost softly: “We’re close.”

  She didn’t look at him when she answered. “I know.”