The morning sun did little to warm the stone corridors of Blackiron Keep. Elyana moved with purpose, her heels clicking against the granite, flanked by two of Kyle's Wolfguard. They were silent, hulking men in grey cloaks, their presence a heavy reminder of Kyle's warning: Accidents happen.
She arrived at the heavy iron-bound door of the Apothecary. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of dried sage and rubbing alcohol. Maester Haren, a stooped man with a milky film over his left eye, looked up from his mortar and pestle.
"My Lady," he croaked, attempting a bow that made his spine crack. "I did not expect a visit. Is the Lord ill?"
"The Lord is well, Maester," Elyana said, her voice brisk. "I am conducting an inventory of the castle's supplies. I need to see your ledger for chemical requisitions from the last month."
Haren blinked, confused. "Chemicals? My Lady, I only dispense medicines and—"
"Sulfur," Elyana interrupted. "Copper salts. Nitrate. Ingredients used for cleaning armor, tanning leather... or other things."
Haren hesitated, then shuffled to a cluttered shelf and pulled down a dusty, leather-bound book. He thumped it onto the table.
Elyana opened it, her finger tracing the lines of ink. She scanned the dates, cross-referencing them in her mind with the timeline of the grain blight.
Three weeks ago.
There it was. A requisition for "Armor Polishing Salts"—copper sulfate and vitriol. A large amount. Far more than the armory would need for a year.
"Who signed for this?" she asked, tapping the entry.
Haren squinted. "That? That was Jory. The Assistant Quartermaster. He said the damp was rusting the reserve plate mail."
Elyana felt a cold satisfaction settle in her stomach. "Jory."
She snapped the book shut. "Thank you, Maester. You have been very helpful."
She turned to the guards. "Where is the Assistant Quartermaster right now?"
"Usually in the lower storerooms, My Lady," one guard rumbled. "Counting the casks."
"Take me to him."
The lower storerooms were a maze of barrels and crates, lit only by flickering torches. The air was cool and smelled of wine and sawdust.
Elyana moved quietly, the guards trailing a few steps behind to avoid alerting their quarry too soon. They found Jory near the back, supervising two servants as they stacked crates of dried fish. He was a wiry man with nervous eyes and ink-stained fingers.
"Jory," Elyana said.
The man jumped, dropping the clipboard he was holding. He spun around, a polite smile plastering itself onto his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze flicked instantly to the guards behind her.
"My Lady Elyana," he stammered. "I... I wasn't expecting you down here. Is something wrong with the provisions?"
"The provisions are fine, Jory," she said, stepping closer. "I am interested in the armor. Specifically, the rust."
Jory's smile faltered. "The rust?"
"You requested five pounds of copper sulfate and vitriol three weeks ago," Elyana said, her voice calm but razor-sharp. "To clean the plate mail. Yet, I spoke to the Armory Master this morning. He hasn't seen you, or any cleaning salts, in months."
The color drained from Jory's face. He took a step back, bumping into a stack of crates.
"There must be a mistake in the logs," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "I... I can check—"
"The only mistake," Elyana said, "was using a Southern recipe in the North. You didn't grind the copper fine enough, Jory. It left a residue."
Jory froze. He looked at Elyana, then at the guards. The realization hit him: she wasn't asking; she knew.
Panic took over. Jory shoved the stack of crates. They toppled with a deafening crash, sending dried fish spilling across the floor.
"Stop him!" Elyana shouted.
Jory bolted, scrambling over the fallen crates and sprinting toward the service tunnel that led to the stables. The Wolfguards surged forward, but the clutter slowed them down.
Elyana didn't run. She watched him go, her expression tight. "He's heading for the horses. Cut him off at the courtyard."
Jory burst out of the storeroom doors and into the bright sunlight of the training yard. He was gasping for air, his eyes wild. He made for the stables, hoping to grab a horse and ride for the gate before the alarm could be raised.
He rounded the corner of the stable block and slammed straight into a wall of chainmail and fur.
Strong hands grabbed him by the tunic and lifted him off his feet. Jory flailed, kicking out, but he was thrown effortlessly to the muddy ground.
He looked up, wheezing, to see Kyle standing over him. The Lord of the North looked like a mountain of ice, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
"Running from your work, Jory?" Kyle asked, his voice a low rumble.
Elyana and the guards emerged from the doorway behind Jory.
"He is the one," Elyana said, coming to stand beside Kyle. "He requisitioned the chemicals used to poison the grain."
Kyle's eyes narrowed. He looked down at the shivering man in the mud. The betrayal in his eyes was more terrifying than his anger.
"My father gave you a job when you were starving," Kyle said. "He gave your family a roof."
"Lord Karst pays in gold!" Jory spat, fear turning into a desperate, sniveling defiance. "He doesn't pay in honor and snow!"
"Karst," Kyle repeated the name. "So he admits it."
"You're a fool if you think it ends with me!" Jory yelled, scrambling backward in the mud. "The North is dying! Karst is the future! He has friends in the capital. He has friends in the South!"
Jory's hand fumbled at his belt.
"Watch his hands!" Elyana warned.
Jory pulled a dagger, but not to attack. He wasn't trying to fight the Wolf. He knew he was a dead man.
Before anyone could move, Jory slashed the blade—not across his own throat, but across the fabric of his sleeve, ripping a hidden pouch. He jammed his fingers into it and shoved a handful of grey powder into his mouth.
"No!" Kyle lunged, grabbing Jory's jaw, trying to force it open.
Jory convulsed, his eyes rolling back into his head. Foam, pink with blood, bubbled at his lips. He thrashed once, violently, and then went limp in Kyle's grip.
Kyle cursed and released the body. It slumped into the mud, lifeless.
The courtyard was silent. The soldiers who had gathered watched in shock.
Elyana knelt beside the body, checking the pulse she knew wasn't there. She sniffed the foam on his lips. "Wolfsbane concentrate. Instantaneous."
Kyle stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. His face was a mask of fury.
"He chose death over interrogation," Kyle said. "He was terrified of what Karst would do to him if he talked."
"He said Karst has friends in the South," Elyana said quietly, standing up. "That confirms the framing attempt. They wanted this to look like my father's work."
Kyle looked at the dead man, then at the gathered soldiers. He raised his voice, addressing them all.
"This man was a traitor! He poisoned our grain and tried to starve your families!"
A murmur of anger rippled through the soldiers.
"Clean this up," Kyle ordered the guards. "Put his head on a pike above the gate. Let Karst see what happens to his spies."
He turned to Elyana. "To the war room. Now."
As they walked away from the scene, Elyana felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Jory was dead, but his last words hung in the air. The rot is deep.
They had caught the hand, but the head was still out there, and now, Karst knew they were fighting back.