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Mira looks deeply annoyed by the logic. “I hate when treason is tidy.”

“It helps.”

“It insults the drama.”

I stamp the second case. “Give this one to Bren first. Syrenya’s packet must go out cleanly.”

“And if she sells you out?”

“Then Vaerith learns one part of what he already suspects and loses the advantage of knowing what else exists.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It is strategic.”

“I would enjoy strategy more if it ever included biscuits.”

“When we live through this, I will steal you an entire tray.”

“You say the sweetest criminal things.”

I smile despite myself.

The pull toward Corin sharpens for one breath, warm and sudden, as if he has drawn closer to the estate wall or turned his attention fully toward me. I feel him there, not as words, not as thought, but as a deep pressure of focus and restraint. The sensation steadies my hands more effectively than any prayer.

Mira notices my stillness. “Him?”

“Yes.”

“Close?”

“Close enough.”

“Good.” She tucks the first case under her arm. “Or terrible. I cannot keep track anymore.”

“Both.”

“That seems to be the theme.”

She slips out through the service door with the first case, leaving me with the remaining two and the sound of the estate tightening around me. I prepare the third packet for the official messenger route, layering it under a stack of maintenance authorizations addressed to the outer ward office. The routing stamp marks it as tedious, low-priority, and approved by my own audit hand. With luck, the guard who carries it will complain about extra work all the way to Lord Kairven’s clerk and never realize he is transporting the first stone in Vaerith’s collapse.

The corridor outside flares red.

Every ward sigil in the east hall ignites at once.

My hand stills over the seal.

Mira returns through the service door so quickly she nearly collides with the shelves. Her eyes are wide, and she has lost the tray she was carrying earlier.

“They are sweeping offices,” she whispers.

“How close?”

“Two corridors. Maybe less.”

The ward sigils flare again, brighter this time, and a low hum moves through the walls. The estate’s search lattice has activated. Vaerith has sensed betrayal, or the courier demon returned with its pebble, or someone noticed that an evidence route went dark. It hardly matters which thread he tugged first. The net is drawing inward.

I close the third case and press the final stamp firmly into place.