CHAPTER 196: LEDGER’S SHADOW

The morning after, the city didn’t feel rested.

It wasn’t the kind of dawn that brought a clean slate; Elandra buzzed before the sun had even tipped the river, like a pot boiling over. Runners darted through the lanes, voices raised too high, and even the gulls seemed sharper in their cries.

Inside the stall, the air smelled of yeast and hot oil. Inigo set dough to rise in neat rounds, precise as if measuring battle lines. Lyra tied her apron with stiff hands, jaw still set from the weight of yesterday. Riko yawned so wide his chalk clattered to the floor, while Maddy hummed nervously as she washed greens.

They felt it, all of them—the pressure, the unseen eyes.

By mid-morning, Elise slipped in, not through the line like a customer, but through the side door as though she’d been sewn into the bricks. She looked at the fryer baskets, the flour dusting the counter, and only then allowed herself a breath.

"You’ve started a fire," she said without preamble.

Inigo flipped a patty. "We started a kitchen."

Lyra leaned on the counter, gaze narrow. "What’s burning?"

Elise set a folded parchment on the prep slate, careful to keep it clear of oil spatters. The seal wasn’t wax, but cloth—gray ribbon threaded with black. Platinum.

"Last night’s ledger opened names," Elise said. "Not rumors. Not whispers. Names. Half the council is pretending they didn’t hear. The other half wants it buried under petitions. Meanwhile, Mardel and his friends will know by sundown that the book is missing."

Riko froze mid-wipe. "They’ll come here?"

Elise shook her head. "Not openly. Nobles don’t dirty their boots. But they’ll send noise. Watchers. Questions. Accidents." She flicked her gaze at Lyra. "The guild needs you ready. Tonight."

They tried to serve lunch anyway.

The line curled twice around the fountain, students scribbled lyrics to fresh ballads, and nobles pushed coins at Riko until the boy’s ears glowed scarlet. Lyra moved with soldier’s efficiency, slipping wrapped burgers across the pass like arrows loosed into battle. Inigo manned the fryer, expression calm, but his eyes kept flicking toward the street—toward faces that lingered too long, or gazes that didn’t belong to customers.

By the time the last bun was gone, Lyra’s nerves were raw. She dropped her apron on the counter and grabbed her bow. "We’re leaving the shutters down tonight."

Riko looked up, startled. "But—dinner rush—"

"Dinner can rush without us," Inigo said firmly. "Maddy, you and Riko lock up early. No exceptions. If someone bangs for food, you didn’t hear it."

Maddy nodded, eyes wide. "We’ll keep it dark."

Back at the guildhall, the atmosphere was different than usual. Not noisy, not bustling. Tight. The kind of silence that gathers before storms. Elise met them again, this time not with a smirk, but with a ledger hugged to her chest like a shield.

"Tonight," she said, "there’s a meet in the Silk Quarter. Warehouse lit like a merchant’s gala, music to mask the real business. Mardel’s allies gathering to decide who takes the fall. The ledger proves them guilty, but without the cipher ring’s key, the tribunal can’t read half of it. And Mardel still holds the real ring."

Inigo frowned. "You sent us to copy it."

"Copies stall," Elise said, voice sharp. "But to break them, we need the metal itself. Tonight’s meet is the only time he’ll wear it openly—on his hand, where he thinks it’s safest."

Lyra’s eyes hardened. "And you want us to cut it off him."

"Preferably not with the finger," Elise said.

Night laid its velvet cloak over Elandra, lanterns glowing like spilled honey. The Silk Quarter throbbed with music and perfume, nobles swaying under colored banners. From the street it looked like a festival; beneath, it reeked of coin and treachery.

Inigo and Lyra slipped through the edges, dressed not as warriors, but as merchants—Inigo in plain but fine wool, Lyra in a dark gown that allowed her bow to fold beneath the fabric. Elise’s contact, a tailor’s apprentice with clever fingers, had provided the clothes with instructions: "Blend with the silk, not the shadows. Shadows get noticed."

Inside the warehouse, tables groaned with food and wine. Mardel stood near the center, a ring of smug allies around him. And there it was—the heavy band of gold on his hand, etched with cipher marks, glinting under lantern light.

Lyra moved first, a dancer’s glide across the room. She lifted a glass of wine, nodded to a noble she didn’t know, and circled closer. Inigo drifted opposite, near the musicians, his stance casual but his eyes locked.

The plan was simple: distraction, then cut. Elise’s smoke pellet—nonlethal, faint enough to pass for spilled perfume—would mask the moment. Inigo’s knife, small as a paring blade, would do the rest.

It worked. Almost.

The pellet fizzed, nobles coughed, laughter rose. Inigo slid close, hand steady. The blade kissed the ring, eased it loose.

But Mardel turned. Too soon. Too sharp. His eyes locked on Inigo’s.

"Thief!" he bellowed, and the music crashed to silence.

The warehouse erupted. Nobles shrieked, guards drew steel, tables overturned in a spray of wine and fruit. Lyra loosed an arrow that pinned a banner across the door before the guards could rush. Inigo pocketed the ring and shoved Mardel hard enough to topple him into a tray of roasted fowl.

"Exit!" Lyra shouted.

They cut through chaos—dodging, sliding, weaving like dancers. A guard lunged; Inigo tripped him with a stool. Another raised a blade; Lyra’s arrowhead pressed cold against his throat, freezing him mid-step.

The back alley reeked of smoke and spoiled silk. They ran. Footsteps thundered behind, but the JLTV waited two streets over, crouched between barrels like a beast in ambush.

Inigo gunned the engine, and the machine roared awake. The nobles’ guards stumbled back, too stunned to give chase.

The guildhall lights blazed when they arrived, Elise already pacing in the courtyard. Thorne himself waited on the steps, arms crossed.

The ring clinked against his desk like a coin tossed into fate. Elise snatched it, relief breaking through her sharp mask.

"With this," she breathed, "the ledger opens clean."

Thorne’s eyes narrowed on them. "You were seen."

"Better seen than dead," Lyra said flatly.

The guildmaster studied her, then inclined his head once. "Perhaps."

They returned home in silence, still wired with the taste of smoke and flight. Inside the stall, Maddy had left a note on the counter: Closed early. All safe. Fries tomorrow.

Inigo set the skillet on the stove, as he always did. Lyra slumped into her chair, bow across her lap.

"You cook after everything," she said, echoing her own words from nights ago.

He cracked eggs, let the pan hiss. "Because heat and time don’t lie."

She smiled faintly, tired but real. "Then don’t burn it."

The city outside kept buzzing, but here, at least, there was quiet.