Marrick had rewritten the contract three times before breakfast, each version stacked beside his elbow under a mess of correction marks.
Hajin stood behind him with Ash on his hip, watching the scribe sand the newest copy while pretending his hand was not shaking.
"Your handwriting gets worse when rich people breathe near you," Hajin noted, shifting Ash away from the ink pot before the boy could taste it.
"My lord, this document decides whether the region eats through winter," Marrick whispered, pressing the blotting cloth too hard against the margin, "so I would prefer if my fingers received fewer opinions."
"Fair," Hajin said, stealing the ink pot before Ash blinked toward it, "but if you spill, we call it a tax stain and charge her extra."
Juna leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded as her ears tracked the movement outside. Seliza's guards had formed a red line around the square before dawn, so neat that every local farmer stopped to count knives.
