I follow him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the answer I have available."
"The gate logs have been altered. Three entries, recopied. The patrol gaps match every breach point we've had in the last two weeks. Whoever is doing this has access to restricted information and enough time inside to do that without being caught. That's not a small problem, Draekir. That's someone inside."
He stops. Turns. His face gives me nothing, which is the version of him I have not seen since the early weeks — closed, deliberate, every surface pulled inward.
"I am aware of what it is. I need you to stop." He says bluntly.
"Stop what?"
"Walking through this manor and pulling threads." There's no coldness in it. There is, however, something closer to fear wearing discipline as clothing. "Whatever you're finding, you're making yourself visible to the same person I am trying to locate."
I hold that where it lands. "Then tell me what you know."
A pause. Fractured at the edges.
"Not yet." He holds my eyes with the full weight of whatever he is carrying, which is considerable, and turns away again. "The gathering is soon. Be ready early."
Duskmire's assembly hall is a low-ceilinged structure built from river stone and patched timber, its beams stained dark from decades of hearth smoke. Fifteen representatives occupy the room — settlement leaders, two minor house officials, and Malrec, dressed with the particular precision of a man who has decided today matters.
Draekir takes the chair at the head without ceremony. I sit where he places me, two seats behind him. The first hour is bureaucratic with the standard accounting of a region trying to determine what it has left after consecutive weeks of destabilization. Draekir moves through it efficiently, issuing concessions where they cost him little and withholding where they cost him something.
Malrec is waiting. I observe him. He has patience as though he’s been building toward a moment long enough that arriving at it is no longer exciting — only necessary. His eyes track the room without landing anywhere for too long. When the accounting finishes and the representatives begin shifting in their chairs, he erupts.
"The corruption spreading," he begins, measured, "has not been random. Three settlements in the eastern plots have reported beast activity originating from routes that track directly to Mournhold's outer grounds." He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. "The attack patterns are consistent. The breachlocations correspond to gaps in rotation that we have had no visibility into." He pauses. "I think it is time we asked why."
Draekir doesn't move.
"The implication," one of the settlement leaders — a woman from the northern plots — addresses carefully, "is that the gaps are deliberate."
"The implication," Malrec replies, "is that they exist. The origin is a matter for us all to determine."
I watch Draekir's hands on the surface. They have not shifted. His posture has not changed. But something in his stillness has changed that only I recognize. This is the stillness of something that has located a target.
"The patrol gaps," Draekir says, "exist because they were created." He looks at Malrec directly for the first time since the meeting began. "By someone with access." His voice carries no emphasis. Each word lands at the same weight. "The rest of you are welcome to debate origin. The records are there." He throws them down. "I would recommend reviewing the ink composition before drawing conclusions about where the accountability sits."
"That is a serious accusation," the northern representative says.
"It's an observation," Draekir replies. "The accusation, if one becomes necessary, will be considerably more specific."
The room fractures at the edges. Lord Ardent's envoy leans toward the southern official and murmurs something low. A settlement leader from the western plots pushes back, his face tight with fear.
"If Mournhold's own records cannot be trusted," he says, "then neither can the roads under its protection."
"Nor the supply routes," someone else adds.
Draekir turns his head slowly. Not sharply. Not angrily. Slowly. The movement is worse because it contains nothing wasted.
"Then the western road closes by sunset," he says.
The room stills.
"Any settlement unwilling to recognize Mournhold's protection may also decline Mournhold's grain, patrols, winter stores, and armed escort." His gaze moves across the table, calm enough to be worse than anger. "Do not mistake my restraint for dependence. I know exactly which roads keep you alive. Choose your next words carefully."
No one speaks. No one in this room is willing to be the first to test what Draekir will do if pushed further, and Draekir lets that knowledge settle over them like a blade laid flat across the table.
Then he glances at Lord Ardent's envoy. "The southern supply reroute. You had a proposal."
