The administrative hall remained lit by tallow candles long after the midnight bells faded across the silent rooftops.
Marrick rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, spreading the revised territorial census sheets across the table before Hajin.
"Read them to me," he said, leaning back in his timber chair.
"Ninety-four pickaxe miners, thirty-eight timber haulers," Marrick sighed, tapping the parchment with a blunted quill.
"Masons?"
"Not a single one."
"Armorers?"
"None at all."
"And the smiths?"
"None who can touch apex crystal," the scribe answered, his shoulders slumping under the flickering candle flame.
"Chests of gold bullion cannot swing forging hammers or repair cracked kiln walls," Hajin observed in a quiet voice.
"Master Varek packed his travel trunks and departed with the southern trade caravan at sunset," Marrick added with a bitter grimace. "He refused to spend another hour in the same room as the black Apex core, calling our valley a nest of madmen."
