The Dirrium kingdom act 6: The auditor's audit
The morning light filtered through the Academy's vaulted windows, dancing in soft, golden shafts. In this sanctuary of oak and ink, the grinding gears of the shipyards and the freezing air of the High Court felt like a distant fever dream.
Leornars sat in the third row, his posture relaxed but precise. His silver pen—the same one that had signed away a man's life the night before—now moved with delicate grace across a fresh sheet of parchment. He wasn't drafting a contract. Instead, he was sketching the intricate anatomy of a Sun-Lily.
"Wait, Leornars, slow down," a voice whispered urgently from the next desk.
It was Mia, a girl whose ink-stained fingers and furrowed brow suggested she was losing her battle with the morning's herbalism lecture. She squinted at her own chaotic notes. "The root has to be dried before grinding, right? Otherwise, it's toxic?"
Leornars paused, his pen hovering. A rare, genuine smile—one that didn't reach for a hidden blade—softened his features.
"Almost, Mia. But if you dry it too fast, you scorch the essence. It becomes inert. You have to cure it in the shade for exactly three days." He slid his parchment toward her, showing a meticulous graph. "I've mapped out the temperature intervals for you here."
"You're a lifesaver," she breathed, her eyes lighting up as she saw the clarity of his work. "I don't know how you keep all this in your head. Between this and the history exams, I feel like I'm drowning."
"It's just patterns," Leornars said softly, returning to his sketch. "The world is just a series of patterns waiting to be recognized."
A few seats ahead, Jonathan sat in uncharacteristic silence. The usual boastful set of his shoulders had collapsed into a defeated slump. When the professor posed a complex question regarding trade ethics, the classroom fell into an awkward hush. Leornars didn't raise his hand to flaunt his knowledge. Instead, noticing a younger student nearby trembling with a half-formed answer, he leaned forward and whispered a subtle hint. When the boy finally spoke up and got a nod of approval, Leornars offered a small, encouraging tilt of his head.
For this one hour, the "Shadow King" was gone. He was simply a student with a keen mind, helping his peers survive the storm.
The illusion shattered the moment the final school bell rang.
As the other students headed to the taverns, the "student" vanished. Leornars stepped into the dim, cloying air of a secluded warehouse near the southern docks. Stacian was already there, pacing between rows of iron-bound barrels. The air smelled sickly sweet—the unmistakable scent of Pollium.
"The latest batch is pure," Stacian reported, tapping a barrel with a heavy crowbar. "It'll give a knight the strength of three men and the speed of a gale. For about six months, at least. Then, the heart simply… forgets how to beat."
"Perfect," Leornars said, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical register. "We market it as a 'Divine Tonic.' Target the elite guards and the high-ranking generals first. By the time they realize it's a death sentence, the leadership of this kingdom will be too frail to resist my next move."
He turned toward the docks. Three ships—the crown jewels of Hildas's former fleet—now swayed under Leornars' neutral colors.
"Two will carry the Pollium to the northern provinces," Leornars commanded, a dark glint reflecting in his eyes. "The third… the third will be our sacrificial lamb."
Two days later, the High Court felt like a tomb.
Lord Hildas stood in the prisoner's dock, his face a haggard mask of desperation. He looked toward the bench, hoping for a shred of noble leniency. But the nine judges sat perfectly still. Their hair shades of brown and black gleamed under the chandeliers, but their eyes were fixed on him with an unblinking, terrifying intensity that felt... unnatural.
"A new discovery has been made," the Lead Judge announced. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering across a grave. "A vessel was intercepted this morning off the coast. It carried your family crest, Lord Hildas. Inside were five hundred crates of forbidden narcotics."
"That's impossible!" Hildas screamed, his voice cracking. "That ship was seized! It's not mine anymore!"
"The manifest bears your seal," the Judge continued, unmoved, holding up the very paper Leornars had hand-delivered at dawn. "And the crew—fearing for their lives—have confessed to being in your secret employ."
In the back of the room, Leornars leaned against the stone wall, clicking his silver pen. Click. Click. Click. He watched as the judges he had "created" systematically dismantled the man who had once called him a beggar.
"For the crimes of high smuggling, subversion of the crown, and state treason," the Judge intoned, "Lord Hildas is sentenced to twelve years in the Iron Spire. His assets are permanently forfeited to the crown's appointed administrator: Leornars."
As the guards dragged him away, Hildas locked eyes with the boy in the back. He opened his mouth to curse, but the look in Leornars' eyes—the absolute, crushing weight of a completed trap—made the words die in his throat.
Leornars stepped out into the hall, meeting the King's Chancellor.
"One noble down," the Chancellor whispered, glancing at the parchment in Leornars' hand.
"Hildas was just the loudest," Leornars replied, his thumb clicking the pen one last time with a sharp, final snap. "There are four more houses skimming from the grain tax. Two more shipping illegal weapons. I've already started the audits. By the time I'm finished, the nobility of Dirrium will either be in a cell or on their knees."
He glanced back at the courtroom where his silent, undead judges sat waiting for the next file.
"Tell the King to enjoy his tea," Leornars said, walking toward the exit. "The law is finally in good hands."