The eastern grain district lay two days' hard ride from the capital, close enough that Aldric's inquiry could return answers within the week, far enough that I hadn't visited it since long before Elian was born — a stretch of farmland and modest market towns that mattered to the empire's stomach far more than to its politics, which was precisely why it made sense as a place to hide.
Aldric's rider returned on the fourth evening, road-worn and grim, carrying a report that confirmed exactly what I'd feared and hoped in equal measure.
"Three granaries showing irregular deficits," he said, spreading a hastily drawn map across the war room table. "Not theft, not obviously — the ledgers balance on paper. But local millers report grain moving out faster than the harvest accounts explain, always in small enough quantities to avoid drawing attention from any single transaction."
