I'm near the far end of the main lane when I hear the magistrate's voice.
Malrec is standing outside a low-roofed house with two of his attendants positioned behind him. The door is open, and a man stands in the frame—older, hands rough from field work, a look like he has been standing his ground for ten minutes and running out of ground to stand on.
"The levy was due at the first of the month," Malrec says pleasantly. "It is now past the second week."
"My lord magistrate, the harvest came in short. We've explained?—"
"You've explained repeatedly." Malrec's tone stays mild. "The explanation doesn't settle the account."
I stop walking.
Collecting unpaid taxes isn't a crime. It isn't even improper. But the family in that doorway—the man's coat too thin for the temperature, a child visible behind his leg with no shoes on—they have nothing left to give. Harvests don't come in short without reason, and reasons don't repeat themselves year after year without someone benefiting from the shortage.
Malrec glances up and notices me. The pleasantness in his expression doesn't flicker, but something behind it does.
"My lord Nyrius." He lowers his head. "I didn't realize you were still in the area."
"I had additional business at the forge." I don't move from where I'm standing. "How long has this family been in arrears?"
A pause, small but present. "Three months, my lord."
"And before that?"
Another pause. "They've had... difficulty keeping current."
I look at the man in the doorway. He's watching me with the same stillness I saw in every villager when we rode in yesterday—waiting to find out which direction the danger comes from.
"I'll note the situation during my territorial review," I tell Malrec. "I'd encourage patience while the review is ongoing."
Malrec's chin dips again. "Of course."
I walk back toward the forge end of the lane without hurrying, turning what I've just seen over carefully. Three months in arrears, in a village this size, with a magistrate this well-dressed. The numbers don't point anywhere comfortable.
I'm nearly back to the forge track when I feel it—the same sensation from last night at the camp's edge. I glance toward the forge entrance without breaking stride.
Edria is standing just inside the open door, wiping her hands on a cloth, watching me. Not quickly, not accidentally. She's been watching long enough that she doesn't startle when I look over.
For a moment, neither of us does anything.
Then she turns back into the forge and disappears into the shadow and firelight, and I face forward and keep walking.
Cyran is waitingat the camp perimeter with his arms still crossed.
"Ready to leave?" he asks.
"Tomorrow," I say.
He unfolds his arms and refolds them. "The daggers again?"
"I'm initiating a territorial review of Oxwood's tax records."
"Why?"
I move past him toward my tent. "Send for the ledgers."
Behind me, I hear him exhale—long, controlled, and deeply unsurprised.
5
