Telnar's books weren't in his office. Too obvious.
They were hidden in the southern records wing—coded as shipping ledgers under a dead merchant house.
I spent three days watching the southern records wing.
Guards changed every six hours. The outer scribe door was rarely locked. The archives within were marked only by ink-stained plaques—just enough order to hide chaos.
The books weren't shelved, but buried beneath a collapsed shelf labeled "Trade Route Archives – Decade 12."
A forged sigil got me inside. A half-hour window got me close. The smell of mildew and ink got into my hair.
Three volumes. Bound in red. Each filled with aliases, transactions, and names that shouldn't be together.
One stood out: House Avelar.
Meanwhile, Serina played the game her way.
Lady Marette wasn't just Telnar's mistress. She was his funnel.
She laundered gold, transferred messages, and hosted guests with no names.
Serina didn't threaten. She offered a deal.
"Your name stays clean," she said, "if you give us three. Three names from his list."
Marette's lips trembled.
"He'll kill me."
"Not if we get to him first."