Nyrius
The post-harvest festival in Oxwood runs three days, and I attend the first evening under the pretense of territorial presence.
The real reason is the crowd — smugglers move during festivals the way water moves downhill, following the noise and cover.
If anyone connected to the western supply lines is going to surface publicly, it's here.
I spend two hours moving through the market stalls and the torchlit square, watching faces rather than the entertainment.
Cyran works the opposite end of the crowd.
We meet on the outskirts of the bonfire circle near the ninth hour and compare nothing, because neither of us has found anything useful.
That's when Malrec appears.
He comes from the direction of the council tent with a cup in his hand and comfortable ease. These are his people. He feels safe and superior here. He spots me and changes course without making it look deliberate.
"My lord Nyrius." He stops beside me, turning to face the bonfire the way two men look at something together when one of them wants to talk without appearing to. "A fine turnout this year."
"It is."
"I wanted to say, publicly—" He gestures toward a passing group of merchants who aren't listening, establishing his audience. "The increased patrol presence around the border settlements has been noticed. The villages feel safer." He tips his cup slightly. "Oxwood in particular."
"Patrol coordination is standard for the season."
"Of course." He sips his drink. "Still, the personal attention you've given that area has not gone unnoticed. The forge family especially seems to have benefited."
I watch the bonfire.
"The daughter is a remarkable woman," he continues. "Resilient. Resourceful." He pauses. "Though I understand she had some trouble recently. A late night altercation near the creek path." His voice stays pleasant. "Fortunate that help was nearby."
The creek path. Not the main forest route — the secondary one, the one she switched to. The one I'd only learned about from Finn.
I turn to look at him.
He meets my eyes with the open expression of a man sharing harmless observations, and behind it, very carefully, is the awareness that he's just told me something. Not accidentally.
"Border regions have their dangers," I say. "That's why patrol coverage matters."
"Indeed." He raises his cup again. "Well. Enjoy the festival, my lord."
He moves back toward the council tent without hurrying. I watch him go and do the math.
He has someone watching the creek path. He knows she was there that night, which means he knows about the exchange point. He knows I intervened. And he chose to tell me he knows — not to threaten outright, but to let me understand the reach of his visibility.
This is a man showing me the edges of his map.
I find Cyran outside the stables at the tenth hour.
"The financial records," I say without preamble. "The missing quarter from the eastern levy reports — do we have the original submission dates?"
He pulls a folded paper from his coat. He's been carrying it, which means he was already expecting this conversation. "Three consecutive quarters, submitted by regional administrators under Malrec's oversight. The originals were logged, then the physical copies went missing from the archive."
"Replaced with the summary sheets."
"Yes." He unfolds the paper. "The dates line up with three major shipment events along the western corridor. Weapons, mostly. One large textile movement that didn't match any legitimate merchant contract."
I check the dates. "He's not just skimming tax collection."
"No." Cyran's voice is flat. "Someone with archive access cleared those records. That's not a magistrate working alone. That requires contacts in the regional administrative office at minimum."
"Which means this reaches beyond Malrec."
"Significantly." He folds the paper and puts it back. "The buyers who moved on your blacksmith — they weren't independent contractors. They had advance knowledge of her routes, her schedule, her output." He crosses his arms. "That information came from somewhere close to the original arrangement."
Someone inside Velis's circle. Or above it.
I think about Malrec's pleasant face at the bonfire. The specific detail of the creek path. The timing of every piece of pressure applied to Oxwood in the last month.
"He's not just profiting from the instability," I say. "He's directing it."
Cyran says nothing, which means he's already arrived at the same conclusion.
I leave the festival.
The forge light is on when I reach Oxwood. I've stopped being surprised by this.
Edria looks up when I come in, reads my face, and sets down her tongs. "What happened?"
"Malrec knows about the creek path." I close the door behind me. "He mentioned it tonight. He knows you were there, he knows about the exchange, and he knows I pulled you out."
She frowns. "How?"
"He has someone watching. Close enough to know details I haven't shared publicly.
" I cross to the worktable and face her.
"Edria, this is beyond a local magistrate collecting extra taxes.
Someone is building something large, and Malrec is the visible layer of it.
You need to stop the deliveries. Permanently. Not temporarily."
She pokes the piece on her anvil. "I already agreed to another order."
"Break the agreement."
"Velis doesn't accept broken agreements." She picks up the tongs again, not to work, just to have something in her hands. "And if I stop, we go back to what the forge income covers, which isn't enough. Not with Finn's medicine costs."
"I can—"
"Don't." Her voice is quiet but firm. "Don't offer to pay for it. We've had this conversation."
"Then let me find another way—"
"There isn't another way." She sets the tongs down again, harder.
"I've looked for three years. I've done the math every month.
There isn't a legal path out of this that doesn't mean Finn goes without medicine or Papa loses the forge.
" She narrows her eyes at me. "Until something changes I'm stuck.
And I need you to understand that before you ask me to stop. "
The fire snaps between us. Outside, the night is quiet and cold.
"The taxes will drop further," I say. "I'm working on it."
"When?"
"I don't have a date yet."
She looks away. "Then I can't give you a date either."
I study her and take everything in — the set of her jaw, the steadiness of her eyes, the three years of survival running behind them. She's not being reckless. She's being honest about the reality.
“It’s too dangerous to continue. For you and for your family,” I insist.