Elias was summoned again—not in chains this time, but still with a guard at his back. Kael waited for him in a long chamber lined with shelves of parchment rolls, tally sticks, and ledgers that looked more like blocks of stone than records of men. The smell of wax and ink lingered in the stale air.
"Sit," Kael said, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Lord Hadrien wishes to see if your tongue can be put to better use than just answering questions. These are the records of last year's grain tithe. Organize them."
Elias lowered himself into the hard-backed chair. His pulse steadied as he stared at the mess before him. Cramped handwriting, fading ink, and no system beyond "pile it and pray." He could feel Silven's eyes on him from the corner of the chamber, the advisor leaning on his staff as if this were a stage and Elias the performer.
This is no test of numbers, Elias thought. This is a test of my story. If I do too well, they'll call me a liar. If I do too little, they'll call me useless. Balance, Elias. Balance.
He sifted through the parchments with deliberate slowness, murmuring, "You keep grain records in tally sticks? Curious. In my homeland, we sorted things by season and household."
Kael raised a brow. "Your homeland again?"
"Yes," Elias said smoothly, without pause. "The river valleys there often flooded. Without order, everything rotted. We learned to keep separate tallies for seed, for stores, for tribute. Otherwise, the people starved."
He began stacking the records into three neat piles. Seed. Store. Tribute. Simple enough to look familiar, yet structured enough to be new. He could almost feel Silven's sharp gaze digging into him, measuring every word, every movement.
"Too neat for a farmer," Silven muttered at last. "More the hand of a clerk."
Elias allowed a faint smile, careful to keep it thin and weary, as though recalling an old hardship. "Clerks in my homeland were common. Even the village headman knew his marks, else the floods claimed him. I learned by watching."
He took up a scrap of parchment and scratched a few swift symbols, trimming unnecessary words into strokes. Not true shorthand—more like stripped-down notes—but enough to impress. He laid it before Kael.
"This," Elias said, "saves ink and time. Marks for seed, marks for store, marks for tribute. A clerk can tally thrice the speed. In my land, we called them quick marks."
Kael leaned forward, studying it, his expression unreadable. "Efficient."
Silven, however, was less impressed. He stepped closer, his voice cool. "Strange that a foreigner, beaten and starved in the pit, remembers such tricks so clearly. Stranger still that his tongue shapes Orravian well enough to explain them."
Elias forced himself to chuckle, though his heart pounded. "Hunger clears the mind, Master Silven. And as for your tongue… I learn quickly when I must. Survival makes a sharp tutor."
Silven's eyes narrowed, but Kael cut across him. "Strange or not, it works. If this saves us coin and keeps soldiers fed, does it matter where it came from?"
Silven did not answer, but the silence was heavy.
Elias bent back to the task, arranging ledgers into a simple sequence of dates, drawing small symbols in the margins to link them. He explained each step as if speaking to farmers rather than lords, framing it in the language of necessity, not brilliance. All the while, he thought: I must never forget—I live only so long as my story holds.
By the time the sun slanted through the narrow window, Kael gave a low whistle. "In one afternoon you've made sense of a year's chaos. Our scribes take weeks."
Elias leaned back, feigning weariness. "Order keeps men alive. That is all I know."
Kael nodded once. Silven, though silent, watched with an intensity that felt more dangerous than a blade.
At length, the advisor spoke. "Perhaps you are useful after all. But usefulness is not proof. I will be watching you, Elias of nowhere."
Elias dipped his head in deference, though inside his thoughts churned. Of nowhere, yes. Better that than of the truth. So long as they need me, I live. So long as I am believable, I endure.
The guard moved to escort him back, but Elias's mind lingered on the parchment stacks behind him. Not grain, not numbers—power. And power, once ordered, could be bent to his will