Barnaby Holt set down his brass tea strainer with a sharp clink, his round eyes wide with shock.
In the center of the cavern, Deacon Vane unrolled three charred scrolls onto the wooden trestle table.
The paper was blackened at the edges, reeking of scorched resin and sulfurous smoke.
“Look at these reports,” Vane said, pointing to the scorched ink with a trembling finger. “They arrived from our capital informants three hours ago.”
Princess Valeria leaned over the table, her amber eyes narrowing as she read the bold ink headings.
“Patriarch Morvane and his son Galen have gone completely mad,” Vane explained, wiping soot from his jaw. “They aren’t just raising prices. They’re buying every independent spirit-herb warehouse in the capital district and setting them on fire.”
“Setting them on fire?” Valeria asked, her voice incredulous. “Why would merchants burn their own merchandise?”
“Because they don’t want anyone else to have it,” Vane replied grimly. “Galen Morvane deployed three hundred clan enforcers to the mountain passes. Every caravan carrying raw medicinal herbs into the valley has been seized or torched.”
