Sage hunched over the desk, papers splayed in disordered piles, fingers tracing lines of ink as if they might speak to him. His thoughts moved faster than his hands, chasing threads of numbers and misallocations he could barely untangle.
A knock at the door pulled him from the haze. He looked up, wary, and saw Selenthis standing there. Her expression was neutral, guarded — nothing like the warmth he had once taken for granted.
“I…” she said, voice careful. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Sage noted the measured formality, the tension lingering from their last meeting.
He gave a small nod, acknowledging her without words. His focus returned to the ledgers, though the air between them carried a weight that pressed close.
“I came by your chambers last night,” she continued, eyes scanning the cluttered desk, “but found them empty.”
Sage exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I couldn’t sleep. I needed to get out… see the city… think.”
She stepped closer, maintaining distance — that same defensive restraint that had come to define her since the rumors began. “You’ve heard, then,” she said, not quite asking.
“I’ve heard enough,” he replied. “Whispers about rationing, patrols, closures in the lower wards.”
Her jaw tensed. “Precautions,” she said. “You’ve seen the unrest building. The shortages aren’t helping.”
He pointed to a section of the ledger, as if numbers could stand in for what words couldn’t. “Here. Look at this.”
Selenthis leaned in, eyes narrowing over his shoulder. Inked lines crossed out and rewritten, figures that didn’t align with reports.
“These are allocations from the provinces to the lower wards,” Sage said quietly. “They don’t match the reports filed previously. Supplies listed as distributed never reached their destination.”
Her brow furrowed. “You’re certain?”
“I compared them myself. Someone’s adjusting the tallies after approval. Small shifts, easy to overlook. But the pattern’s too deliberate.”
Selenthis’s expression darkened. “And now the same provinces report missing shipments and spreading fear. They think the patrols are there to keep them in, not protect them.”
“Which might be exactly what someone wants,” Sage murmured.
Her gaze lingered on him — a flicker of trust and doubt in equal measure. “If you’re right, this isn’t just corruption. It’s sabotage.”
Sage nodded faintly. “You’ve tightened the patrols near the southern gates?”
“I had to,” she said, her tone clipped. “If unrest breaks there, it will spread to the barracks and markets before we can respond. But I can’t hold a city together if it starts believing I’m the one choking it.”
A silence settled between them, heavy as lead. Sage felt the strain behind her words — the impossible balance between protection and control, and the way rumor could make them indistinguishable.
Selenthis’s gaze flicked to the corner of the desk, where a stack of gilded invitations lay. “The council’s ball is in two days,” she said quietly. “You should decide if you’re attending.”
Sage didn’t look up immediately. His mind turned over the ledgers, the discrepancies, the city’s hunger and the cold distance of ceremony. “I’ll consider it,” he said finally.
She studied him a moment longer, the faintest trace of fatigue softening her tone. “Does the resource manager know about this?”
“I’ve sent for him. He should be here any minu—”
A knock cut through his words. The sound was crisp, deliberate — not a servant’s. Selenthis and Sage exchanged a look.
“Enter,” Sage called.
The door opened with a muted creak, and the resource manager stepped in. His posture was stiff with formality, his composure thin as lacquer.
“Councillor,” he greeted, inclining his head toward Sage. “My lady.”
Selenthis’s nod was curt, her eyes coldly assessing.
“Mr. Voss,” Sage said as he rose.
Jaren Voss crossed the room, halting just opposite the desk. His eyes flicked over the ledgers, the tension in his throat betraying him.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Selenthis said softly. Her voice carried no accusation — only weariness. She glanced once toward Sage, an unspoken warning in her eyes: be careful who you trust. Then she turned and left, her departure as quiet as her arrival.
“Please,” Sage said, gesturing to the seat across from him.
When the latch clicked shut behind her, the silence felt heavier. Voss lowered himself into the chair with care, the movement deliberate, formal. Sage followed suit, leaning slightly forward, the ledgers spread before him like evidence.
“You’ll forgive the early hour,” Sage began. “There are discrepancies I’d like explained.”
The manager’s eyes flicked briefly to the open pages, then back to Sage. “Discrepancies?” he echoed carefully.
“Yes,” Sage replied. “The lower ward allocations. Figures that don’t align with what your office reported.”
“Councillor,” Voss began, his tone clipped, rehearsed. “If there are inconsistencies, I assure you they’ll be corrected.”
Sage regarded him quietly. “I’m not interested in corrections, Mr. Voss. I’m interested in truth.”
Voss’s lips parted in a faint smile — polite, practiced, entirely void of warmth. “Truth, Councillor, is a matter of record. The ledgers speak for themselves.”
“Do they?” Sage pushed one toward him. The ink shimmered faintly in the morning light, revealing lines crossed and rewritten. “These numbers have been altered. Not once, but systematically. Provinces Izumi, Tareth, and Vannir — their consignments show identical revisions. Entire routes rewritten as though the roads themselves had shifted.”
Voss’s gaze dropped to the page. He didn’t lean forward to read — just looked, eyes unmoving, as if he already knew what was written there. “Perhaps the redistribution was sanctioned. The Council often approves adjustments to maintain balance.”
“My office oversees these allocations, Mr. Voss,” Sage said. “They don’t move without my signature.”
A pause — brief, but enough. Then, lightly, “Sometimes authorization travels faster through older channels.”
Sage leaned back. “Older channels. You mean the ones that were supposed to have been closed after the reformation decrees?”
Voss finally looked up. The veneer of civility in his expression tightened. “Councillor, Gurad doesn’t run on decrees. It runs on continuity. The Redistribution Edict of the Seventh Year was bypassed through the very same procurement offices you now question. The council’s will is not the only will that matters. You of all people should appreciate that.”
Sage studied him. “Continuity,” he repeated softly. “A continuity of theft?”
Voss exhaled through his nose — not irritation, but the weariness of a man repeating a lesson to a stubborn student. “A continuity of function. The city’s balance depends on discretion. Numbers are adjusted because they must be. If the lower wards receive less, it is because their consumption was… inefficient. The Council cannot subsidize waste.”
“Waste,” Sage murmured, eyes narrowing. “You call hunger waste?”
“I call it management,” Voss replied, his tone steady but his fingers betraying him — a faint tremor as they clasped together atop his knee. “Resources must circulate where they yield return. The city cannot bleed for sentiment.”
Sage rose slowly from his chair. “You speak as if the people are columns in your ledger.”
“They are,” Voss said, then caught himself. “We all are, Councillor. Even you.”
The silence that followed felt alive — humming, brittle. The papers on the desk seemed to tremble in the faint current of air between them.
Sage stepped closer. “You’ve been diverting shipments upward, haven’t you? To the upper tiers.”
Voss didn’t answer. He simply straightened, composed once more. “If you intend to make this an inquiry, I would advise you to tread carefully. There are records you do not want reopened. And patrons, whose influence has outlasted many a councillor’s career, whose patience you should not test.”
Sage studied him — the calm arrogance, the certainty of one who’d long learned that truth bends under hierarchy. “You’re protecting someone.”
“I’m protecting the city,” Voss corrected softly. “From idealists who forget what it costs to keep it standing.”
For a moment, neither moved. Then Voss adjusted his robe, stood, and gave a shallow bow. “If that will be all, Councillor?”
Sage didn’t answer. He merely watched as the man turned, unhurried, and left the chamber — the click of the latch sounding like the end of a sentence too heavy to finish.
The room felt colder when he was gone. Sage stared down at the ledgers again, at the smudged ink beneath his hand. The numbers no longer looked like numbers. They looked like ghosts.