The office felt colder than the rest of the hall. The great stone chamber stood quiet, lit only by two low-burning lamps. Shadows stretched long across the floor, their edges licking at the desk where Kael sat. The air smelled faintly of ink and wax, but beneath it lingered the staleness of old paper and secrets that had lain buried for too long.

  The ledger lay open before him. Its pages were worn, the corners creased from years of handling. Kael had spent hours turning through them, line after line, date after date, searching for truth in the numbers. He found patterns, names written and struck out, coin flowing in and out like a river. Yet the deeper he read, the clearer it became—this was no simple record of a household. It was a mask.

  Kael traced one of the lines with his finger. “Three dozen barrels of grain… paid in full. But no record of storage. No trace of it in the kitchens, no mention in the cellars.” He turned another page. “And here—horses, ten of them, marked as sold, but none ever left the stables. And here—slaves. Not written outright, but hidden under false names. Iron, wood, livestock. Livestock.”

  The word tasted foul in his mouth. His jaw clenched as his hand closed the ledger with a dull thud. He sat in the silence, the weight of what he had uncovered pressing against his chest.

  A knock broke through.

  Kael straightened, his voice firm. “Enter.”

  The heavy door swung inward. The steward stepped inside, robes trailing faintly across the floor. His face was calm, his hands folded politely, as though this were any ordinary summons. He bowed deeply.

  “You called for me, my lord?”

  Kael studied him for a long moment without answering. The steward’s face was smooth, but Kael had learned in battle that calm was often a shield for fear. His eyes lingered on the man’s hands, the faint tremor in the fingers, quickly stilled.

  “Yes,” Kael said finally. His voice carried no warmth. “Close the door.”

  The steward obeyed, and the thud of wood meeting stone echoed in the quiet. Kael gestured to the chair across the desk.

  “Sit.”

  The steward hesitated—just long enough to betray unease—before lowering himself into the seat.

  Kael pulled the ledger forward, sliding it so its open pages faced the steward. “Tell me,” he said evenly, “how have you been handling this house before I came?”

  The steward’s eyes flicked to the book, then back to Kael. His lips parted, but no words came at first. At last, he gave a faint laugh, forced and brittle. “My lord, surely you know what this is. A record of goods, of trade, of the hall’s accounts. I merely kept it as the stewards before me did.”

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  Kael leaned forward, resting his hands flat on the desk. His gaze did not shift. “Do not play with me. I have read it all. I know the marks, the false names. Grain that never came, horses that never left, and lines where men and women were counted as if they were timber or stone. Tell me—who did you serve? This house? Or the slavers?”

  The steward swallowed hard, the color draining faintly from his face. But still he tried. “You mistake the meaning, my lord. Records are never perfect. Sometimes goods are lost, sometimes coin is miscounted. Surely you cannot—”

  Kael’s hand slammed against the desk, the sound cracking through the chamber like thunder. The lamps flickered with the force of it.

  “Do not lie to me!” Kael’s voice was low, dangerous, each word sharp as a drawn blade. He leaned closer, eyes fixed on the steward. “I have seen enough of liars. This house rotted before I set foot in it, and I will know how deep the rot runs. You will tell me now.”

  The steward flinched, his breath quickening. He looked down at the ledger again, as though the words written there might shield him. But under Kael’s stare, his calm began to crack.

  “My lord,” he said slowly, his voice thin. “You do not understand the weight of the forces at play here. To keep this house standing, I had no choice.”

  “No choice?” Kael spat. “You had the choice to sell or to resist. You had the choice to keep this house clean or stain it with chains. And you chose silver.”

  The steward’s hands trembled on his knees. He licked his lips, searching for words. “It was not so simple. When I became steward, the slavers were already here. The markets already ran beneath the ridge. To refuse them would have been to lose everything. They demanded coin, goods, support. I gave what they asked, or else…” His voice faltered.

  “Or else what?” Kael pressed.

  “Or else they would have cut me down, and the hall with me,” the steward whispered. His eyes darted up, pleading. “The lords of the ridge—they command it all. Not just merchants, but soldiers, noblemen, names that reach further than you think. If I had turned them away, we would have been crushed before you ever set foot in these halls. This way… I bought us time. I kept the house standing.”

  Kael’s fists clenched. He stood, circling the desk with slow, deliberate steps. His boots rang against the stone, steady, unhurried. The steward twisted in his chair to follow him, fear widening his eyes.

  “You call it survival,” Kael said, his voice cold. “But you fed the trade. You signed their ledgers. You watched children dragged into cages, and you wrote their suffering as numbers in a book.”

  The steward’s composure broke. He slid from the chair onto his knees, bowing low until his forehead touched the floor. His voice shook. “Mercy, my lord. I beg you. I did not want this. I swear, I did not. I only sought to protect what I could. I can give you names—every man who stood with me, every noble who gave coin, every soldier who turned his head. Just spare me. Do not cast me to them. They will kill me.”

  Kael stared down at him, silent. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the firelight glinting along the steel. He could end it here with one motion, one stroke. But he did not move.

  “Mercy,” Kael said at last, his tone iron. “That word belongs to those you sold, not to you.”

  The steward trembled, clutching at the hem of Kael’s cloak. “Please! I will serve you faithfully from this day. I will give you all that you ask. But if you expose me, they will come. The slavers, the lords, the men in shadows—they will not forgive betrayal. You do not know their reach.”

  Kael pulled his cloak free of the steward’s grasp, stepping back. He looked down at the man groveling at his feet, broken not by remorse but by fear.

  “You will write the list,” Kael said. His voice was steady, hard as stone. “Every name, every house, every coin that passed from hand to hand. If you lie, I will know. And when it is done, your fate will be decided.”

  The steward looked up, sweat dripping down his temples. His lips moved, struggling for words, before he finally nodded. “Yes, my lord. I will write it. I will tell you everything.”

  Kael turned away, walking back toward the desk. His cloak trailed behind him, brushing the floor. He placed his hand once more on the ledger, pressing it closed with finality.

  “You have until nightfall,” he said without looking back. “Bring me the list.”

  The steward scrambled to his feet, bowing again and again before hurrying from the chamber. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, leaving Kael alone with the silence once more.

  He stood for a long time, his gaze fixed on the desk, on the book that had carried years of hidden rot. The steward’s words echoed in his mind: Lords of the ridge. Merchants. Soldiers. Names that reach further than you think.