The Iron Seal was far heavier than its physical dimensions suggested, a literal anchor of concentrated history and systemic corruption. Once back within the fortified walls of the Hold's inner sanctum, Deacon laid the ledger upon his heavy oak desk. The iron plates that bound the vellum were pitted with age and stained with a dark, oxidized residue that looked uncomfortably like old blood. Staff Sergeant Rodriguez stood by the door, her hand still resting on the hilt of her axe, her eyes scanning the shadows of the corridor for any sign of the sub-prior's pursuit.
Deacon did not call for a locksmith. He called for Miller. The combat engineer arrived within minutes, carrying a small leather roll of precision chisels and a fine-toothed saw he had fashioned from the scrap metal in Blake's workshop. Miller didn't speak; he simply knelt by the desk and began to work on the rusted padlock. The sound of metal rasping against metal was the only noise in the room, a rhythmic, agonizing sound that seemed to echo the ticking of a clock counting down to their exposure.
After twenty minutes of agonizing tension, the lock gave way with a sharp, final snap. Miller stepped back, and Deacon pulled the iron covers open. The vellum inside was surprisingly well-preserved, filled with a dense, microscopic script that was far more precise than the usual erratic medieval hand. This was the work of a professional—the scribes of the chapel who had seen the movement of every grain of wheat and every copper coin in Oakhaven for two decades.
"Thorne was right," Deacon whispered, his finger tracing a column of figures. "It's all here. The three-year period leading up to the famine wasn't a time of drought. It was a time of record harvests. But look at the export logs." He pointed to a recurring entry: Pro Rege et Merito—For King and Merit. Beneath it, the scribes had noted the true destination: private warehouses in the southern city of Oryn. .
As the hours passed and the candle stubs burned low, the full scope of the embezzlement became clear. The former Lord Cassian hadn't just been selling grain; he had been manufacturing a crisis. By artificially restricting the local supply, he had driven the price of the remaining grain through the roof, then sold the 'surplus' back to his own people at a four-hundred-percent markup. The Church hadn't just watched; they had facilitated the transactions, taking a ten-percent 'tithe' on every illicit bushel to maintain the silence.
"This is our leverage," Deacon said, closing the book. The weight of the data was staggering. "Marius didn't just know about the bastardy; he was the bookkeeper for the theft. If I take this to the Imperial Governor, Marius isn't just disgraced; he's executed for treason against the Crown's tax base. We don't just have a shield anymore, Rodriguez. We have a sword."
But the victory felt hollow. As he looked at the numbers, he saw the faces of the starving peasants he had met in the market square. He saw the hollow eyes of the children and the desperate anger of the farmers. The man he was supposed to be had systematically murdered his own subjects for gold, and the Church had blessed the endeavor. It reinforced the necessity of the Shadow Command. They weren't just soldiers in a new world; they were the only people in Oakhaven with a functional moral compass, even if it was hidden behind a mountain of lies.