The ledger lay on the low table between them like an accusation folded into vellum. Oillight feathered across script that named names, traced payments, and threaded routes from palace cellars to foreign docks. Outside, Mehrawan's night held its usual chorus — crickets, distant oars, the occasional shout of a late watchman — but inside the war-room the air tasted of iron and restraint. A single piece of paper had the power to unmake manners, tilt alliances, and decide whose loyalty would be honored and whose would be burned.