Rosalind wiped down the polished bar and counted the empty stools. Three on a Friday. The owner didn't notice, but she did. She wanted this tavern. She had wanted it for years. Tonight, she needed one thing: the real numbers. Aldric shuffled past with a crate, humming. He never locked the small drawer beneath the bar top. He trusted her with the small things because he never looked at her long enough to wonder. When he stepped into the cellar, Rosalind slid the drawer open. Behind it, a thin panel gave way to a hidden space she had found months ago. Inside sat his battered journal, bank notes poking from the pages like weeds. She flipped through fast. Unpaid suppliers. A loan past due. A note from a woman down the road, asking for more time on a shared debt. Worse than she guessed. Much worse. A floorboard creaked. Elara stood in the doorway, one hand on her belly, eyes steady. "So. You found it." A pause. "Honestly? I wondered who would, first." Rosalind closed the journal and met her gaze. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The numbers were hers now, and the next move had already begun forming behind her quiet smile.