Page 145 of Demon’s Snack

“State the allegation,” he says.

I turn toward the room.

“Lord Vaerith Sylmorne has falsified ward reinforcement expenses across at least six fiscal quarters, concealed unauthorized soul-energy intake through shell contracts, and misrepresented ritual supply expenditures attached to yesterday’s public demonstration.”

The hall erupts in murmurs.

I raise my voice over them. “The intake totals do not match declared ward usage. The missing reserves correspond to siphoning patterns disguised as loss, spoilage, and emergency civic containment renewal. The same shell vendors appear across multiple ledgers with no physical offices, no independent witness seals, and no labor record beyond Vaerith’s own house authorization.”

An older woman in dark garnet silk leans heavily on her cane near the front row. Lady Othrel. Her eyes burn with the particular fury of someone who has found her own suspicions made public.

“Names,” she snaps.

I give them.

One by one.

“Rellum Ward & Stone. Eastvein Perimeter Supply. Kasker Civic Reinforcement. Hollowmere Binding Maintenance. Threefold Lamp and Seal. All registered through dead clerks, false guild marks, or inactive labor houses. All receiving payment from public-facing ward accounts. All routing excess soul-energy into private Sylmorne reservoirs.”

The murmurs turn sharper.

Corin’s hand brushes mine beneath the table, brief and grounding. The bond steadies around the contact, and I continue before the emissaries can regain control.

“Sable.”

Behind me, Sable opens her satchel.

She moves fast. Packets pass into three different hands at once: a clerk from Kairven’s faction, Lady Othrel’s attendant, and a dark elf woman in Syrenya’s colors waiting near the gallery steps. Syrenya receives hers with a lazy flick of her fingers and a smile that could make a banker confess.

Another packet goes to a guild recorder. Another to a human contract copyist near the rear tables whose hands shake as she accepts it. Another to Bren, who has somehow made it inside wearing a courier sash and the offended expression of a man who would like the world to know this is not his fault.

The room shifts as the evidence multiplies.

Vaerith cannot burn one source now.

He would have to burn the hall.

One of Vaerith’s emissaries shoves forward from the dais side, silver badge flashing at his collar. “This is an unauthorized disruption.”

I glance at him. “Correct.”

He falters.

A few people near Syrenya laugh softly.

The emissary recovers, face reddening. “Lord Vaerith will answer allegations through proper sealed channels.”

“He had proper sealed channels,” I reply. “He used them to skim soul-energy.”

Lady Othrel’s cane strikes the floor once. “I want the intake tables.”

“You have them.”

Kairven’s nephew lifts his packet and scans the first page, his expression sharpening with open calculation. “The quarter-three ward expense ratios are impossible.”

“Unless the reserves were siphoned.”

“Unless the reserves were siphoned,” he repeats, louder.