The terror in Cael’s eyes did not lead to repentance; it crystallized into swift, merciless military calculation.
The knight slid his broadsword back into its scabbard with a sharp, metallic snick. The trembling in his hands stopped as the ingrained discipline of an imperial officer took command of his nerves. He was no longer a solitary soul stunned by an unexpected companion; he was a commander cutting away an infected limb to save his defensive perimeter.
“Stand where you are, Hale,” Cael commanded, his voice dropping into that flat, clipped cadence used on the parade ground before an assault.
He did not draw steel again. Instead, he closed the distance between them with two rapid, decisive strides, his silver-chased gauntlets reaching out to seize Jon’s wool coat. Before Jon could twist away, Cael’s heavy fingers caught the lapels, shoving the innkeeper back against the cold granite surface of the nearest nave pillar.
With practiced efficiency, Cael reached into the deep inner pocket of Jon’s coat.
His leather fingers caught the edge of the bound leather ledger—the small, battered octavo volume bound in blackened calfskin, its pages holding seven cycles of barrel counts, malt deliveries, and Ben Rill’s dark pitch thumbprint.
