Marcus Valenor had learned long ago not to rush bad news.
The ledger arrived with the morning dispatch—one among many, its cover unremarkable, its pages dense with numbers that would bore most men before the first line ended. It bore the seal of a southern merchant house, stamped and approved, carried by a caravan that had passed through three checkpoints without incident.
Routine.
That alone was enough to set his instincts on edge.
Marcus dismissed the courier with a nod and waited until the door to his quarters closed before opening the ledger. He did not sit. He did not remove his gloves.
He stood at the table, shoulders squared, eyes scanning.
Grain allocations.
Salt shipments.
Wine tallies adjusted by a fraction of a unit.
At first glance, nothing was amiss.
At second—
His breath slowed.
