The Steward's Ledger

The scullery floor remained damp from spilled brine, and the quiet that followed the patrol did not last. Through the half-inch gap where the warped oak door refused to meet its stone keeper, Kaelen caught the dull scrape of soft leather soles dragging along the flagstones. It was not the crisp cadence of Varis's guards. The steps were uneven, hesitant, pausing every few paces as if the walker had to check the row of copper cauldrons and drying racks before venturing further.

Lyra drew her heels back against the lower shelf of salt casks, tucking the rolled parchment registry into the wool folds of her sleeve. The heat at her breastbone had settled into a steady ache, warm enough to sting through the linen of her chemise, but no longer flaring with the fierce crimson light that had threatened to betray them minutes earlier. She looked up at Kaelen. His shoulder was pressed flat against the rough plaster beside the hinges, his chin lowered, eyes fixed on the vertical sliver of light cutting through the gap.

A dry cough rattled in the outer room. Morvath, the senior steward assigned to Master Pendaran's household offices, shuffled into view past the scrubbed pine prep table. The old fae looked small beneath the vaulted stone of the scullery, his stooped back draped in an ink-spotted tabard of grey wool. Under one arm he clamped a calfskin ledger banded in tarnished brass, while his other hand gripped an unlit tallow stub. He paused beside the table, blinking into the shadows of the empty kitchen with milky, tired eyes, plainly disoriented by the silence left in the raid's wake.

"Cook?" Morvath called, his voice thin as sheep parchment. "Mistress Alida?"

Receiving no answer, the steward lifted the brass tally ring looped to his belt and let it drop heavily against the butcher's block. The metal struck the hard maple with a sharp crack that rang through the quiet room, making the tin measuring cups on the pantry's top shelf hum in sympathy. Kaelen's jaw tightened. He reached behind him without turning his head, his fingers finding Lyra's wrist and pressing down gently, urging absolute stillness.

Morvath muttered under his breath, clicking his tongue as he laid the open ledger flat upon the maple wood. "Left the tallow unguarded again. Left the bins open. Godless scullions, the whole lot of them."

From where she stood pressed into the crook of Kaelen's arm, Lyra could see the steward's profile clearly through the breach in the frame. The crowbar used by Varis's soldier had gouged a hand-span of seasoned oak from the jamb; if they tried to pull the handle to shut that final sliver of space, the warped timber would screech against the lintel like a wounded bird. Yet leaving it ajar presented its own gamble. Morvath was already wetting his thumb, turning the heavy vellum pages of the supply index, muttering figures under his breath as he prepared to verify the pantry stocks.

"He has Pendaran's seal on the clasp," Lyra whispered, her lips barely moving against the rough wool of Kaelen's tunic. "The small ring. He isn't with the guard."