Inside the dark nook of the northern gallery, Tomas sat upon an empty powder keg and laid out the four lead cylinders on his knees.
The screen of the Last Claim hovered in his mind, steady and cold as an iron plumb-bob. Line by line, the physical measurements, the builder stamps, the chemical assay of the dragon-soot, and the clockwork specifications of the bypass water gate inscribed themselves onto the permanent parchment slate of his mind.
“The evidence chain is closed,” Tomas said, looking up at Nessa and Sile. “Under the Grand Charter of ninety-two, we have established three indisputable findings of law. First: the Great Karst Wyrm was a complete fabrication, engineered with air-powered drills, pitch flares, and commercial blasting powder. Second: the Great Siphon was obstructed by an intentional, heavy-duty demolition designed to divert common water to private mining water gates. Third: the Dragon-Slayer Trust has pulled out over twelve thousand crowns in fraudulent water tariffs while systematically poisoning the parish water tanks with stone runoff.”
“That’s enough to hang Bailiff Garret and strip the Dragon-Slayer heirs of every title they hold,” Sile said, his hand resting on the handle of his guard-sword. “If we can reach the High Country Court in Bellwether alive.”
