The courier stations near the palace district were everything Darrik had promised: busy, organized, and careless in the way that came from routine.
We'd spent two days watching before we made our first move. Two days of sitting in hired rooms with windows overlooking the main square, tracking the flow of messengers and runners, noting the patterns. Who arrived when. Who carried sealed pouches. Who moved with the kind of deliberate calm that suggested their cargo mattered more than most.
Darrik's parchment had been accurate. The runners operated on a schedule, appearing at specific times with coded markings on their pouches. A small fox pressed into the wax seal. A particular shade of blue ribbon. Details you'd miss if you weren't looking for them.
But we were looking.
"That one," Joss said, nodding toward a young man crossing the square. Dark hair, nondescript clothing, a leather satchel slung across his chest. The wax seal on his pouch caught the morning light. Fox emblem.
I watched him enter the station, exchange words with the clerk, and leave through the side exit. Fast, efficient, unmemorable.
"Third one this week," I said.
"Same route every time. East gate, then into the merchant district." Joss leaned back from the window. "If we're going to intercept one, it needs to be soon. Before they realize we're watching."
"Tonight," I said. "After dark. Less witnesses, easier to disappear."
"And if he fights?"
"Then we make him talk anyway."
Joss nodded and went to check our gear. I stayed at the window, watching the square, thinking about Maros Welle and the network he'd built. Payments moving through the city like blood through veins, feeding the houses and ministers who kept the border in chaos.
Somewhere in this city, he was coordinating it all. And soon, I'd have a thread to pull.
***
We moved after nightfall.
The runner appeared exactly when Darrik's schedule said he would, emerging from the station with his satchel and turning east toward the merchant district. We followed at a distance, Joss and I moving through the shadows while Sael's men stayed back as reserves.
Maer walked beside me, silent and watchful. He'd barely spoken since the meeting with Darrik, his usual warmth replaced by something harder. Focused.
The runner turned down a narrow alley, cutting between buildings toward a side street. I signaled to Joss, and we split up, flanking him from both sides.
He never saw us coming.
Joss stepped out ahead of him, blocking his path. The runner froze, hand going to his belt. I came up behind and pressed my blade to his back.
"Don't move," I said quietly. "Don't shout. Just hand over the satchel."
He hesitated, weighing his options. Then he slowly unhooked the strap and held it out. Joss took it and stepped back while I kept my blade steady.
"Who hired you?" I asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The payments. The tokens. Maros Welle."
His eyes widened slightly. Just enough to confirm he knew the name.
"I'm just a courier," he said. "I deliver messages. That's all."
"Who do you deliver them to?"
"Different people. Merchants, mostly. I don't ask questions."
I pressed the blade a little harder. "Try again."
He swallowed. "There's a man. He gives me the routes, tells me where to go, what to carry. I never see his face. He leaves instructions at a drop point near the river."
"Where?"
"Old warehouse. South bank, near the fishmongers. There's a loose stone in the foundation, third from the left. That's where he leaves the instructions."
"How often?"
"Every few days. Sometimes more, if things are moving fast."
I glanced at Joss. He nodded and opened the satchel, pulling out the sealed pouch. The fox emblem gleamed in the dim light.
"What's in this?" Joss asked.
"I don't know. I never open them."
"Start now."
The runner's hands shook as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment inside. Even in the darkness, I could see the cramped writing, the columns of numbers, the notations that looked like accounting.
Payment records.
Joss held it closer to the light filtering from a nearby window. "Names, amounts, dates. This is a ledger. Partial, but it's a ledger."
"Who's it going to?" I asked the runner.
"A clerk. Works in the treasury building. I don't know his name, just his office number."
"Show us."
He hesitated again, but the blade at his back persuaded him. "Third floor. East wing. Office marked with a blue door."
I pulled back the blade and stepped around to face him. "You're going to forget this conversation. You're going to tell whoever asks that you were robbed by street thugs, that they took your satchel and ran. Understand?"
He nodded quickly.
"If I find out you warned anyone, if I hear that Maros Welle knows we're watching, I'll come back. And next time, I won't be asking questions."
"I understand."
"Good. Now go."
He didn't need to be told twice. He turned and ran, disappearing into the maze of alleys.
Joss handed me the parchment. I scanned it quickly, my pulse quickening. Names I didn't recognize, but amounts that were staggering. Payments moving through the treasury, routed to accounts that didn't exist on any official record.
"This is it," I said quietly. "This is the proof."
"Partial proof," Joss corrected. "We need more. We need to trace these payments back to the source, connect them to the ministers, to Rothera, to the raids."
"Then we follow the trail. Starting with that warehouse."
***
We returned to the Cracked Bell just before midnight. Sael was waiting in the common room, a cup of wine in his hand. He looked up when we entered.
"Successful?" he asked.
I handed him the parchment. He read it slowly, his expression darkening.
"Treasury accounts," he said. "Coded payments. This is ministerial corruption, Captain. If this gets out, it'll cause a scandal."
"That's the point."
"No, you don't understand. This isn't just about exposing Rothera or Maros Welle. This implicates the Crown's own apparatus. Ministers, clerks, possibly even people close to the Emperor himself. If you present this without context, without allies, they'll destroy you to protect themselves."
"Then I'll find context. I'll find allies."
"How? You're a Warden from the north. You have no standing here, no connections. The only reason you've gotten this far is because you've been operating quietly. The moment you go public, the moment you try to present this evidence, every house in Cerasis will turn on you."
"Let them."
Sael set the parchment down and leaned forward. "Ryn, I'm trying to help you. But you need to be smart about this. You need to find someone in the court who benefits from exposing this. Someone with enough power to shield you while you build your case."
"Like who?"
"Like the prince."
I stared at him. "Edrin?"
"He's the Emperor's favorite son. He has the ear of the court, the backing of several houses. And he's ambitious. If you can convince him that exposing this corruption serves his interests, he'll protect you long enough to make your case."
"And what does he get out of it?"
"The satisfaction of undermining his father's ministers. The political capital of being the one who cleaned up the court. And maybe, if you play it right, a Warden captain who owes him a favor."
I didn't like it. Didn't like the calculation in Sael's voice, the way he framed everything as a transaction. But he wasn't wrong. I needed allies. And if Edrin could provide cover while I built the case, then maybe it was worth the risk.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Think fast. The longer we sit on this evidence, the more likely someone realizes what we have."
I took the parchment back and walked upstairs to my room. Maer was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Tired."
"Can I come in?"
I hesitated, then nodded and unlocked the door. He followed me inside and closed it behind him.
The room was small and sparse, the same as every other room I'd stayed in. Bed, table, chair, window overlooking the street. Nothing personal, nothing that marked it as mine.
Maer sat on the edge of the bed and watched me as I set the parchment on the table.
"That's dangerous," he said, nodding toward it.
"Everything about this is dangerous."
"I know. But that piece of parchment could get you killed faster than anything else you've found."
"Then I'll be careful."
"Ryn." He stood and crossed to me, his presence warm and solid. "When are you going to stop pretending you're invincible?"
"When I finish what I came here to do."
"And if you don't finish it? If they kill you before you get the chance?"
"Then someone else will."
"That's not good enough."
"It has to be."
He caught my wrist, gentle but firm, and pulled me closer. "No, it doesn't. You matter, Ryn. Not just the mission. Not just the evidence. You."
"Maer, I can't do this right now."
"When, then? You keep saying after, but what if there is no after? What if this is all we get?"
I looked up at him, at the intensity in his eyes, the way he held me like I was something fragile and precious. And for a moment, I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that there could be something beyond the mission, beyond the duty.
But I couldn't.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
He let go of my wrist and stepped back. "You don't have to apologize. I just wish you'd let yourself want something."
"I want justice."
"That's not the same as wanting to live."
The words hit harder than I'd expected. Because maybe he was right. Maybe I'd been so focused on the mission, on the duty, that I'd forgotten what it felt like to want something just for myself.
But it was too late to think about that now.
"Get some rest," I said. "We have a long day tomorrow."
He nodded and walked to the door. He paused there, looking back.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I think you're worth saving. Even if you don't."
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the parchment and the weight of everything I was carrying.
I sat at the table and stared at the ledger, at the names and numbers and coded payments. Somewhere in this city, Maros Welle was moving pieces on a board I was only beginning to understand.
But I had a thread now.
And I was going to pull it until the whole thing unraveled.