We met the journalist in the garden behind the chapel.
Young. Pale. Ink-stained fingers.
She didn't ask for gold. She asked for proof.
I gave her the first page of the ledger.
She unfolded it slowly, eyes tracing the names. Her fingers froze at the Avelar crest.
"Is this real?" she asked.
"Do I look like someone writing fiction?"
She didn't smile. Just folded the page and tucked it into her satchel.
"If I print this, it won't just burn them. It could burn you too."
"Then let it burn."
"And your name?" she asked.
"Does it matter?"
"To history? Yes."
"Then call me Elira."
By dusk, the article was printed.
In the university cafés, it spread like wildfire. By noon the next day, three names were being whispered in noble salons—not as leaders, but as liabilities.
Front page.
"Royal Coin in Shadow: Leaked Ledgers Tie Nobles to Silent Funds."
The Queen did not stop it.
Which meant she had chosen her side.