The ledger arrived at dusk.
It was thick, unremarkable, bound in cracked leather darkened by road dust and handling—one of dozens delivered to Eastridge Hold each week as part of routine border monitoring. A junior officer placed it on the long table in the command hall with a stack of similar volumes and moved on without comment.
Marcus did not.
He stood at the table long after the others had dispersed, armor shed, sleeves rolled, lamplight catching on the faint scars that traced his forearms. His posture was rigid, the way it became when his mind refused rest.
"Anything worth flagging?" an aide asked, already halfway toward the door.
Marcus opened the ledger. "Everything," he said quietly.
The aide paused, then nodded and left without argument.
Marcus turned the pages slowly. Tariffs. Cargo lists. Merchant seals. Weights, measures, routes. He did not skim—he read. Not for profit or volume, but for rhythm. For irregularity. For the places where order faltered.
