Lady Marette delivered.
Three names.
One: a magistrate from the inner city. Two: a military quartermaster. Three: Reina Avelar.
Serina swore. I didn't.
Because I already knew.
The Avelars had influence. Wealth. Legacy. But more than that, they had silence. The kind you pay for, and kill to keep.
"We need proof," Serina said. "We need pressure," I replied.
So we used both.
The magistrate didn't go quietly.
It took five nights of tracking his routine, a forged affair with a servant girl, and leaking the letters to a rival just vindictive enough to act.
Only when we pushed his creditors to demand repayment in front of the court did he crack.
The quartermaster was harder.
He had a locked ledger, a loyal aide, and a private vault.
Serina bribed the aide. I slipped the sealed pages into the Guard report.
When the numbers didn't match the armory records, he was summoned for questioning.
Both screamed before they gave us what we needed:
Receipts. Transfers. A schedule.
And a date.
Private gathering. Avelar estate. Full court list. Seven days.