The brass balance scale tilted sharply as Caleb Conway dropped a third lead token into the left pan, confirming that three hundred thousand mortal silver pieces had vanished from the southern trade registry without leaving a single receipt.
Across the low cedar table inside the study of Cloud Mist Peak lay seven strips of ciphered parchment, each pulled from the hollow base of the entrance lantern over the past three days. Clerk Finch had worked with the frantic desperation of a man whose soul was pinned to a blood oath, copying private requisition slips, midnight gate stamps, and internal accounting discrepancies from the Mission Pavilion before the morning scribes arrived.
Caleb traced the ink trails with his thumb, his golden root humming quietly in his chest to sharpen his analytical
