Nyrius
Isit with the ledger copies until the camp fire burns low, and then I sit with them a while longer.
Edria's voice keeps running through my head—not the sharp version, the one she uses like armor, but the flat one from the back yard. Ask what a village looks like after twenty years of impossible taxes. She said it without drama, which made it land harder than drama would have.
I've governed border territories for longer than that.
I've read the reports, reviewed the numbers, made the adjustments the regional councils recommended.
I told myself that was governance. Riding through a place twice a year and reviewing documents prepared by the men profiting from those same documents.
Edria would have a word for that. Several, probably.
The part I can't put down is the question of the weapons.
Not her specifically—I meant what I said about not arresting her.
But the supply lines reaching Ardenmere, the organized buyers, the rebel attacks growing more coordinated.
Someone is building something, and the materials are moving through villages like Oxwood because those villages are desperate enough to provide them.
We created the desperation. That's the part Thalen and Fenrath and the nobles won't say out loud, because saying it requires admitting the system they benefit from produces predictable and preventable consequences.
I add that to the list of things I can't unknow.
Cyran finds me still at the table when the morning watch changes.
He studies ledger copies, then shifts his eyes to me, then at the cold tea beside my elbow. He sits down across the table without being invited.
"You know something about the weapons," he says.
"I know something about the craftsmanship."
"That's the same thing."
I close the ledger. "It's a stylistic similarity. It's not proof of anything."
"Nyrius." He uses my name without the title, which he reserves for when he's being completely direct. "If you have information about the supply lines and you don't report it to the courts, that's a political liability you can't recover from. Not if it comes out later."
"I'm aware."
"She's one woman in one village." He throws his arms to the side. "Your standing, your territories, your ability to do anything for any of these border settlements—all of it depends on the courts trusting your judgment. If they think you've been protecting a weapons smuggler because—"
"I know," I say. "I heard you."
He leans back. "Then what are you doing?"
"I need to understand the full supply chain before I condemn anyone.
" I push the ledger aside. "If I report a name without understanding who's actually behind the organization, I hand the courts a scapegoat and the real threat continues.
" I place my palms on the table. "I'm not protecting her.
I'm building a case that means something. "
Cyran considers this silently. "That's a reasonable argument."
"It's also true."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive." He stands. "How long?"
"A week. Maybe two." I pull a blank page toward me. "I want to trace the forest routes west of Oxwood. The western routes connect to three other settlements—if the supply is moving through here, there's a transit point somewhere between the village and the Ardenmere border."
"I'll pull the patrol maps."
He goes. I write.
The forest routes take two days to investigate on foot, which is the only way to read them properly.
The main path is obvious—worn, frequently used, the kind of track that develops when people walk the same line through undergrowth often enough that the ground remembers it.
Two smaller branches split off before the old mill creek, both heading southwest. Fresh boot prints on one, disturbed undergrowth on the other.
Someone has been moving weight through here regularly.
I mark the transit points and come back to the village.
Malrec is waiting at the lane entrance, which means his people have been watching the forest edges. His expression is pleasant. He practices pleasantness, but doesn’t mean it.
"My lord Nyrius." He starts walking beside me uninvited. "I wasn't aware you were still conducting business in this area."
"I wasn't aware I needed to report my movements to a regional magistrate."
"Of course not." A small laugh, perfectly modulated. "I only mention it because Oxwood is a quiet village. Multiple visits from a border lord tend to unsettle people. They wonder if something is wrong."
"Is something wrong?"
"Not to my knowledge." His grey eyes move briefly toward the forge. "Unless you've found cause for concern during your visits."
I stop walking. He stops half a step after me, which tells me his composure is slightly less complete than he presents it.
"I'm conducting a standard territorial review," I say. "When it's complete, you'll receive a report through the proper channels." I meet his gaze and don’t flinch away. "Is there something specific you'd like to address while I'm here?"
A beat. "No, my lord."
"Then I'll let you get back to your work."
I walk to the forge and don't look back, but I feel his attention on my shoulders the entire way. He knows I've been in the forest. He knows I've been asking questions. And now he knows I've noticed him noticing.
I've drawn too much direct attention here. Whatever I look for next needs to happen from a distance, through riders and contacts rather than personal investigation. Staying longer makes Malrec cautious, and a cautious man covers his tracks.
I need him comfortable.
Edria is alone at the forge.
She looks up when I step in, and something moves briefly across her face—surprise, quickly managed. She sets her file down and straightens.
"You're leaving?" she asks.
"For now."
She nods, looking back at the piece she was working. Her hands stay flat on the workbench.
"It was you, wasn’t it? The tariffs," she says, after a moment.
I don't answer.
"That was you," she says again, not a question this time. She looks up. "You didn't have to do that."
"The ledgers showed a reporting error that required correction."
"Don't." Her voice is quiet, not sharp. "I'm trying to say something, and I'd rather you didn't make it harder."
I wait.
She pulls in a slow breath. "You've shown up in this village and done more for it than anyone with authority has done in years.
" Her jaw moves slightly. "You didn't have to do any of it.
You had every reason to ride through and forget we existed.
" Her eyes come up to mine. "I wanted to say that. Before you go."
The forge is warm at my back. She's standing three feet away, hazel eyes direct and unguarded in a way I've only seen from her twice before—both times when she thought no one important was watching.
I take one step forward. She doesn't move back.
"Edria—"
We stand toe to toe, and I bring my hand to her cheek. Her skin warm and flushed from the forge, or maybe flushed from something else. She sucks in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t move away.
I shouldn’t do this. It goes against everything elf and human, but I don’t listen to my logical thoughts and I lean in closer to her. She tips her face up just enough, glossy lips waiting.
Boots on the path outside. Two sets, unhurried, coming toward the forge entrance.
She steps back. I step back. She turns to the workbench and picks up her file, and by the time the farmer and his son appear in the doorway, she is working and I am simply a political figure standing near the wall.
"Edria," I say, my voice low enough to carry only to her. "I'll return."
She doesn't look up. But her file slows against the metal, just once, before she finds her rhythm again.
I leave before I stay for reasons that have nothing to do with territorial reviews.