Chapter 87. Needle in the Ward

The sabotage was polite.

Scribe Halven brought ledgers to the Tally Room at noon, right on time, every column neat enough to cut your finger if you ran it along the line. The Moonfire stores showed full. The oath-leaf wax tallied. The ward salts accounted for.

“Efficient,” Syra said, flipping a page with a frown.

“Trust,” Halven said, smiling as if insulted, “is a better use of time, Marshal.”

“We don’t buy things with trust here,” Neris said. “We buy them with bones.”

We wouldn’t have found it if Rhea hadn’t sneezed.

“Sorry,” she muttered, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “The salts—”

“Don’t sting,” Orla finished, head snapping up.

Moonfire salts should make your sinuses ache just from being in the same room. These sat quiet as sand.

“Open the next crate,” I said.

Rhea pried up the lid. Inside: the right glass vials, the right labels, the right faint blue sheen.

Orla tipped a measure into her palm, lifted