Beneath the Ledger's Shadow

The torches hissed softly in the stillness of the royal court. The heavy air carried the scent of ink, melted wax, and unease.

Ben sat at the head of the chamber once more, the parchment still open before him, its creases deepened from where his fingers had pressed too tightly the moment before. His command echoed faintly in the silence: "No one leaves until I say so."

Now, as the murmurs of nervous officials faded to stillness, he leaned back in his throne and stared down at the records again.

The numbers bled together at first—columns of figures, lines of trade approvals, and marks from ministries he'd trusted for years. But then something caught his eye.

A name.

A transfer code.

And a note labeled under Social Welfare Expenditure — City Infrastructure Development.

His brow twitched.

He scanned the figures again, slower this time. The treasury funds were redirected to what appeared to be a city rebuilding project—a noble cause, on paper. The payments were issued to multiple small traders for materials: lumber, stone, grain, even raw metals for construction. But the flow of money... didn't add up.

Ben's eyes narrowed. "That's strange," he muttered, tracing the ink trail with his fingertip.

The transactions looped back on themselves. Some of the trader names repeated. Some shipments were logged twice. And the serial numbers—he frowned—didn't synchronize with the ones in the earlier report.

He flipped the previous scroll open beside it, aligning both pages under the candlelight. The difference was clear now. Two sets of traders. Two different networks. But one identical routing mark buried deep in the transfer code—an identical stamp that shouldn't exist on separate ledgers.

Ben's expression hardened. "Impossible…"

His eyes flicked between the records again and again, disbelief settling into slow, simmering anger. Someone had built a funnel beneath his treasury—a clever, patient hand that rerouted funds through "charity" projects and siphoned them into shadows.

Welfare, reconstruction, relief... all the perfect masks for theft.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then straightened, voice low. "Who signed these?"

No one answered.

Every man and woman in the court shifted slightly, avoiding his gaze. The silence cracked only when the heavy scrape of a chair echoed through the hall.

"My sire," a deep voice broke in, calm but edged with tension.

Ben lifted his eyes.

The speaker stepped forward—broad-shouldered, armored in dark steel polished to a dull shine, the mark of a commander carved into the chestplate. His presence filled the chamber like the rumble of distant thunder.

It was General Varen, commander-in-chief of the Lionheart Army.

Ben's eyes softened, just slightly. "Varen. Speak."

The man bowed, his voice steady but grim. "My lord, as you commanded earlier, I have doubled the guard presence on every city gate. Orders have been dispatched to all divisions in every direction. By evening, the capital should be fully secured."

Ben gave a brief nod. "Good."

But Varen didn't relax. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the ground before lifting again to meet the king's. "There's one more concern, my sire."

Ben's voice lowered. "What concern?"

Varen's tone carried weight now, measured and careful. "Reports from the borderlands. The Moon Eagle tribes are still gathered in celebration from their festival. But…" He paused, his armored hands tightening at his sides. "They've noticed our vigilance. Scouts report their leaders are watching our borders closely."

Ben frowned. "That's not unexpected. They always test boundaries after large gatherings."

"Yes," Varen said slowly. "But this feels different. Their movements are deliberate, organized. Almost… observant."

Ben's fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne. The Moon Eagle clans had been restless for months—but their actions lately were too measured for mere curiosity.

Before he could respond, Varen continued. "And, my lord… there's another issue. One that concerns the capital itself."

Ben's eyes sharpened. "Go on."

The commander inhaled deeply, his expression tightening. "Our intelligence division reports growing movement in the underworld."

The words hit like a cold wind.

Ben leaned back slowly, the light shifting across his face. "The underworld," he repeated, tone soft but heavy. "They dare stir now?"

Varen nodded once. "Yes, my lord. Whispers, mostly. Activity in the lower markets. Movements at the docks. Some of our informants have gone silent."

Ben's gaze darkened.

The underworld of Lionheart wasn't new—it was an old scar, a shadow that never truly healed. He'd spent years purging it, cutting out its rot from the city's veins. But like weeds, it always grew back in the cracks.

He exhaled slowly. "No matter how deep we dig, it always resurfaces."

Varen's voice lowered. "It seems this time… they move with purpose."

Ben's jaw tightened. "And you believe this connects to the treasury?"

The commander hesitated. "Not directly, my sire. But… if they've grown bold enough to move during royal tension, it means they're emboldened by someone inside the court."

The thought lingered in the air like smoke.

Ben's fingers tightened slightly around the scroll. His mind connected threads: the forged trade routes, the missing funds, the unrest at the border, and now the silent stirrings beneath his own capital.

One shadow feeding another.

He looked back at Varen. "Then what do you propose, Commander?"

Varen lifted his chin slightly, resolve settling in his posture. "I have one possible course of action, my sire. But…" He hesitated. "It would require your explicit permission."

Ben studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Permission?"

Varen nodded. "Yes, my lord. The method isn't conventional. But if we are to uncover the truth—about the treasury, the underworld, and perhaps the connection between them—it may be our only path."

The court shifted with unease, whispers rippling like wind through dry leaves.

Ben silenced them with a glance. His eyes returned to Varen, searching the man's face—the quiet steadiness of a soldier who'd seen too much and still stood unshaken.

The firelight flickered across both of them—two figures framed in power and burden.

Ben leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. "Then speak, Varen. Tell me your way."

Varen met his gaze, the faint echo of steel in his tone. "I will, my lord… if you permit it."

Ben held his stare for a long moment, unreadable.

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