The journey through the caves was a descent into a different kind of darkness. This was not the familiar, almost comforting blackness of the mines, but a wet, living dark, filled with the drip of unseen water and the scuttling of things I could not name. The air was thick and cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay. Akram led the way, his torch held high, its light a small, defiant star in an infinite night.
He had arrived at the secret entrance to the mines just as my own torch was about to sputter and die, my hope with it. He was breathless, his clothes torn, a fresh scratch on his cheek, but in his hands he clutched not the heavy ledger, but a slim portfolio of rolled parchments. We talked as we made our way through the mine, finally reaching the juncture into the natural cave system.
"Lukan wouldn't part with the book," he'd explained, his voice echoing in the narrow passage. "He was terrified. He kept saying the ledger was the only thing protecting him, that if Kareem's men found it gone, they would know he'd helped us. He sat there, weeping, for nearly an hour."
My heart had sunk. "So he refused?"
"No," Akram said, a grim smile touching his lips. "He's a creature of procedure, even in his terror. He said he could not give away the original document without a formal writ, but he could, under the Civic Safety Act, provide a certified copy of relevant entries for the 'preservation of the state.'" Akram unrolled one of the parchments. In the flickering light, I saw Lukan's spidery, meticulous hand, a perfect transcription of the damning figures, each page stamped with the exchequer's official seal. "It took him hours. He copied every entry related to the tribute and the monument for the past five years. He said a copy, properly certified, was legally as sound as the original."
Now, as we navigated the treacherous, winding passages of the cave, those parchments felt heavier than any book. They were our only weapon, the culmination of a terrified old man's courage. We moved in a silence broken only by the sound of our own breathing and the soft crunch of our boots on the damp ground. The journey was a blur of stone and shadow, of narrow squeezes and vast, echoing chambers where our torchlight was swallowed by the immensity of the dark. We ate the dried fruit and hard cheese from Akram's satchel as we walked, not daring to stop for more than a few moments at a time.
Time lost all meaning. It could have been a day or a week. Finally, I felt a change in the air, a subtle shift in the pressure, a new scent mingling with the damp earth—the smell of open sky. Akram, his face etched with exhaustion, pointed ahead. "The opening," he said, his voice a croak.
We emerged, blinking, into the harsh light of midday. We were on the wrong side of the mountain, a windswept slope of rock and scrub, with the city a distant smudge on the horizon. The Imperial camp was there, a sprawling, orderly stain on the sea of red sand.
"We go straight through," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "They'll be watching the roads, the approaches from the city. They won't be expecting anyone to come from the mountain."
We half-ran, half-stumbled down the rocky slope, our legs trembling with fatigue. We reached the sand and began the long, exposed walk toward the camp. We were still fifty paces from the outer picket line when the shouts went up. A mounted patrol emerged from behind a dune, lances lowered, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Surrender was not an option; we had to get to the command tent.
"For the city!" Akram yelled, and we broke into a sprint, not away from them, but through them, toward the heart of the camp. In that moment, a chilling clarity cut through my exhaustion. This was madness. We were two unarmed, exhausted people charging an entire trained Legion. A wave of self-recrimination washed over me—this was a foolish. We were not thinking clearly. But it was too late. We were committed, a pair of moths flying into a bonfire.
A soldier lunged from a guard post. Akram ducked under his grasp and shoved him into the path of another. I felt the wind of a lance thrust that missed my shoulder by an inch. I stumbled, grabbed a tent rope to steady myself, and kept running. We were a whirlwind of chaos, not fighting to harm, but fighting to get past. We were cornered cats, all claws and no brains, and for a few breathless moments, it worked. We broke through the southern picket line. But there were too many. We were overwhelmed, dragged down into the red sand. I saw Akram curl his body around the slim portfolio, taking the brunt of the soldiers' manhandling to protect the precious parchments within.
We were dragged into the command tent, the sudden shift from bright sun to canvas shadow leaving me momentarily blind. As my eyes adjusted, I saw him: Nadim. He was standing, not in chains, but not free, his face written with disbelief and astonishment. Beside him stood a hard-faced man in the armor of an Imperial Commander—Cassian. And near the Commander, thunderbolt of fury, was Kareem.
"You!" Kareem snarled, lunging forward before two legionaries blocked his path. "Traitors! You conspire with this gutter rat against your own blood!"
Commander Cassian, who had been watching the scene with cold, analytical eyes, held up a hand, silencing the struggling Kareem. His gaze, heavy with a commander's authority, settled on the two new prisoners. "Identify yourselves," he demanded.
I drew myself up, shaking off the hands of the legionaries. "I am Princess Aliya. This is my brother, Crown Prince Akram." I looked from Cassian to Nadim, my voice gaining strength. "We have come to confirm the truth you have already heard. My father is a madman who has squandered our city's wealth and withheld the Emperor's tribute. My brother Kareem," I said, shooting a glance of pure contempt his way, "is his willing accomplice. They lied to you, Commander. They seek to use the Imperial Legion as a cudgel to silence the man who actually saved this city. My father is not a hostage," I said, my voice cutting through the tent. "He remains in his palace, a prisoner of his own madness and vanity, not of Nadim. If you doubt it, send your men to the city. They will find him there, likely complaining about the dust from repairs on his walls or the noise of people working to survive."
"Slander! Lies from a treasonous witch!" Kareem screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "She was to be executed for her crimes! They are all liars!"
Cassian watched him coldly, then turned back to me. "The Prince claims your words are wind. He is not without a point."
"Then let us still the wind with proof, Commander," I replied. I looked at Akram. He stepped forward, his earlier dissociation burned away by the urgency of our purpose. He held out the portfolio of parchments. "My brother has brought copies of the Royal Treasurer's ledgers, certified and sealed by the Royal Exchequer himself."
A decurion took the parchments and handed them to Cassian. The Commander unrolled the first one, his eyes scanning Lukan's meticulous script. He unrolled another, and then another. The silence in the tent was absolute, broken only by the rustle of the parchment and Kareem's ragged breathing. I watched Cassian's face, saw the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slow hardening of his eyes from suspicion to a cold, professional anger.
Akram stepped forward, and for the first time, he looked every inch the Crown Prince he was. The vagueness was gone, burned away in the caves and replaced by a cold, clear fury. His voice, though weary, was steady and precise as a scribe's pen. He pointed to a line on one of the pages. "Here, Commander. The entry for the spring tribute, marked as 'paid.' And here, on the same day, a withdrawal of the exact same amount, allocated to the 'Royal Monument Fund.' It is the same for the past five years. The tribute was collected from the people, but it never left the city's coffers. It was spent on marble, on gold leaf, on foreign artisans, on my father's vanity." He unrolled another parchment. "And here. Funds diverted for 'palace renovations,' for 'royal hunts,' for a new wing on the summer villa that was never built. It is all there. A decade of theft and lies, all in my father's name."
"Forged!" Kareem howled, his face purple with rage. "Lukan is a sniveling coward! They forced him! My brother is a lunatic and my sister is a traitor! They would do anything to seize the throne!"
The ledger was the irrefutable proof. It corroborated Nadim's story perfectly and exposed my father and Kareem as fools and liars. Cassian looked up from the parchments, and the cold fury in his eyes was terrible to behold. They had tried to play him for a fool and use an Imperial Legion as his personal collection of thugs.