The story broke within the hour.
Every printing house in Eastpoint ran a version of the scene: Fenwick, standing on the manor steps, flanked by his daughter and myself. His words—recorded, printed, and shared—hit the city like a second wind. Not loud, but strong. Not flawless, but real.
And real was what we needed.
The smear campaign didn’t vanish overnight. The gossip didn’t stop. But it changed direction.
Questions turned inward.
Who benefits from these attacks?
Who planted the leak?
Why now, after all this time?
It was just enough doubt to shift the light.
Correnne entered my office just after noon with two new letters: one from a Westmarsh magistrate pledging support, and another from the editor of the Morning Ledger asking for an exclusive interview.
"They smell movement," M
