My nail tapped the ledger where a name lived that shouldn't have.
"Ren's warehouses," I noted, as if I were reminding the table where the salt was kept.
Zhao Hengyuan didn't flinch fast enough, but Meiling did.
Her eyes cut sideways, quick and guilty—not because she'd done it, but because she recognized the word the way palace girls recognize a prince's scent on a corridor: trouble someone else meant to keep secret.
Mingyu's bowl was still untouched. "The same Ren whose clerks bought temple rope," he murmured, voice mild enough to mask the weight.
"The same Ren whose cart lines the riverfront," I continued. "The same Ren who thinks the south gate has no memory."
The clerk shifted, brush squeaking against the rim of his ink stone. Yaozu lifted the testimony packet again and laid the second witness statement beside the ledger as if setting two bones where they could knit.
