The smoke was no longer a suggestion; it was a thick, grey blanket lunging for my lungs.
I've spent my life crunching numbers, but here was a calculation I didn't like: The room was roughly 200 square feet, the fire was spreading at a rate of five ledgers per minute, and my oxygen was depleting faster than a billionaire's tax liability in a Cayman Islands offshore account.
"Hans!" I shouted again, coughing as the acrid scent of burning parchment filled the air.
No answer. Either he was unconscious, or the priests had moved him.
I looked at the iron door. I didn't have a key, and I didn't have Kaelen's brute strength. But I did have a bottle of "Sacramental Wine" I'd swiped from the shelf earlier for "testing," and a heavy iron letter opener.
"In physics, we call this a localized pressure event," I choked out, wrapping my tea-soaked cloak around my face.
I poured the high-alcohol wine over the door's hinges and the lock mechanism. Then, I dragged a heavy oak table toward the door. I used the table as a brace, positioned the letter opener against the weakened hinge, and kicked with everything I had.
Nothing.
"Come on, Elara," I hissed. "Think like a Villainess, not an actuary!"
I looked at the fire. It had reached the curtains. I grabbed a burning chair leg—my hands screaming from the heat—and jammed it against the alcohol-soaked lock. The flame flared blue. Metal expanded. The wood of the door groaned.
I gave it one final, desperate shoulder-check.
The door didn't just open; it shrapneled. I tumbled out into the hallway, gasping for air that didn't taste like ancient history.
I didn't run for the exit. I ran toward the High Priest's private study.
If Malachi thought a little "Holy Fire" would stop an audit, he was about to learn about the concept of Double Jeopardy.
I burst into his office. Malachi was standing by the window, watching the smoke rise from the basement with a look of serene satisfaction. When he saw me—covered in soot, hair singed, eyes burning with a very un-holy rage—he actually dropped his gold-leafed prayer book.
"You... you should be ash," he stammered.
"I'm an auditor, Malachi," I said, stepping toward him. I held up the one thing I had tucked into my waistband before the fire got too hot: The Gilded Grape Ledger. "We're like cockroaches. We survive everything except a balanced budget."
"Guards!" Malachi shrieked.
"The Guards won't help you," a cold, familiar voice echoed from the doorway.
Kaelen was there. He wasn't wearing his formal clothes anymore. He was in his black combat gear, and his sword was already unsheathed. Behind him stood a dozen Imperial Soldiers, their faces grim.
"Kaelen," I breathed, the adrenaline finally starting to crash.
He was across the room in three strides, his hands catching my shoulders. He looked me over, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and terror. "I saw the smoke. If you had died for a pile of paper, Elara, I would have burned this entire Cathedral to the ground myself."
"I didn't die for paper," I said, handing him the charred ledger. "I lived for the 'Gotcha' moment. Look at page 42. Malachi isn't just skimming tithes. He's buying 'Divine Wrath' in the form of five hundred illegal crossbows."
Kaelen's gaze shifted to the High Priest. The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
"High Priest Malachi," Kaelen said, his voice a low, lethal growl. "By the authority of the Crown and the Grand Auditress, you are under arrest for high treason, embezzlement, and the attempted murder of a Royal Official."
"You cannot arrest me!" Malachi cried. "I am the voice of the Sun!"
"Then you can explain your 'expenses' to the Sun from the window of a dungeon," I snapped.
As the soldiers dragged the screaming priest away, Kaelen pulled me into a quiet corner of the study. He reached out, gently wiping a smudge of soot from my forehead.
"You're bleeding," he whispered, his thumb lingering on my temple.
"It's a minor overhead cost," I joked, but my voice wavered.
Kaelen didn't laugh. He pulled me against him, his arms wrapping around me with a desperate tightness. I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs—a frantic, uneven rhythm.
"No more solo audits," he commanded into my hair. "From now on, you go nowhere without me or a full squad of my personal guard. Do you understand?"
"Kaelen, I have a job to do—"
"And I have a woman to keep," he countered, pulling back to look me in the eye. "I've spent my life thinking gold was the only thing that mattered in this Empire. But watching that smoke rise... I realized that if the Treasury is full but you aren't in it, the whole kingdom is bankrupt."
I looked at the man who was supposed to be my executioner, and I realized my "Retirement Island" was looking less like a place and more like a person.
"Fine," I whispered. "But the guards have to stay outside the door during my dinner dates. I don't like an audience when I'm over-ordering dessert."
Kaelen laughed, a short, relieved sound. "Deal. Now let's get you home. You smell like a chimney and you're still holding a grudge. It's a terrifying combination."