I turn to look at him.
He meets my eyes with the open expression of a man sharing harmless observations, and behind it, very carefully, is the awareness that he's just told me something. Not accidentally.
"Border regions have their dangers," I say. "That's why patrol coverage matters."
"Indeed." He raises his cup again. "Well. Enjoy the festival, my lord."
He moves back toward the council tent without hurrying. I watch him go and do the math.
He has someone watching the creek path. He knows she was there that night, which means he knows about the exchange point. He knows I intervened. And he chose to tell me he knows— not to threaten outright, but to let me understand the reach of his visibility.
This is a man showing me the edges of his map.
I find Cyran outside the stables at the tenth hour.
"The financial records," I say without preamble. "The missing quarter from the eastern levy reports — do we have the original submission dates?"
He pulls a folded paper from his coat. He's been carrying it, which means he was already expecting this conversation. "Three consecutive quarters, submitted by regional administrators under Malrec's oversight. The originals were logged, then the physical copies went missing from the archive."
"Replaced with the summary sheets."
"Yes." He unfolds the paper. "The dates line up with three major shipment events along the western corridor. Weapons, mostly. One large textile movement that didn't match any legitimate merchant contract."
I check the dates. "He's not just skimming tax collection."
"No." Cyran's voice is flat. "Someone with archive access cleared those records. That's not a magistrate working alone. That requires contacts in the regional administrative office at minimum."
"Which means this reaches beyond Malrec."
"Significantly." He folds the paper and puts it back. "The buyers who moved on your blacksmith — they weren't independent contractors. They had advance knowledge of her routes, her schedule, her output." He crosses his arms. "That information came from somewhere close to the original arrangement."
Someone inside Velis's circle. Or above it.
I think about Malrec's pleasant face at the bonfire. The specific detail of the creek path. The timing of every piece of pressure applied to Oxwood in the last month.
"He's not just profiting from the instability," I say. "He's directing it."
Cyran says nothing, which means he's already arrived at the same conclusion.
I leave the festival.
The forge lightis on when I reach Oxwood. I've stopped being surprised by this.
Edria looks up when I come in, reads my face, and sets down her tongs. "What happened?"
"Malrec knows about the creek path." I close the door behind me. "He mentioned it tonight. He knows you were there, he knows about the exchange, and he knows I pulled you out."
She frowns. "How?"
"He has someone watching. Close enough to know details I haven't shared publicly." I cross to the worktable and face her. "Edria, this is beyond a local magistrate collecting extra taxes. Someone is building something large, and Malrec is the visible layer of it. You need to stop the deliveries. Permanently. Not temporarily."
She pokes the piece on her anvil. "I already agreed to another order."
"Break the agreement."
"Velis doesn't accept broken agreements." She picks up the tongs again, not to work, just to have something in her hands. "And if I stop, we go back to what the forge income covers, which isn't enough. Not with Finn's medicine costs."
"I can?—"
