Chapter 6
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Imperial knights stormed the offices alongside treasury agents in a sudden rush.
“Clear your desks and back against the walls—now!”
Battle-scarred warriors from the emperor’s campaigns loomed like giants over the timid bureaucrats.
Clerks froze in shock before edging toward the edges of the room, eyes darting uneasily.
The armored figures held position at a safe remove, their stares sharp and unyielding.
Under the emperor’s decree, no one dared stray from compliance.
Desperate looks passed among the workers toward Donovan, begging for his intervention.
Sweat poured down his face amid the collective scrutiny, pushing him to confront a nearby knight.
“Why this disruption?”
He aimed for defiance, yet his words crumbled into a feeble whimper when the knight turned his way.
The soldier appraised him head to toe before demanding confirmation.
“You Donovan Schröze, running this operation?”
Donovan muttered agreement through gritted teeth, as if every fiber resisted the admission.
The knight summoned an agent with a sharp gesture.
“Over here—Donovan Schröze.”
The official closed in fast and launched his inquiry.
“Filed documents point to Duke Camelot’s household and allies dodging levies, pocketing payoffs, and cooking books for hidden reserves.”
Color drained from Donovan’s cheeks, leaving a ghostly pallor.
“Impossible… no way…”
He babbled the refusal in a stupor, only to wither under the man’s disdainful glare.
“Our probe wouldn’t exist without cause.”
The agent lost patience, shoving Donovan toward the knight while scanning files and barking a name.
“Andrew Nopfen handles Duke Camelot’s domain and adjacent zones.”
From the line’s shadowed end, Andrew got yanked forward roughly.
Massive hands gripped him tight; he craned backward with a fugitive’s longing.
The agent unfurled a paper Andrew had clutched moments before.
“Did you prepare this, Andrew Nopfen?”
He brandished a duplicate of the western strategic resources ledger.
That grueling all-nighter I’d poured into aiding Connie days prior.
Territory listings hit Andrew like doom; then inspiration struck, and he bellowed wildly.
“Her fault—not mine! Constance handled it! Witnesses galore saw Donovan direct her!”
To clarify, he jabbed a finger her way.
“Right there, the one with fiery orange locks—Constance.”
Spotlit abruptly, Connie flicked a glance my direction but caught herself.
“From certain angles, it might pass as my doing…”
She managed a stiff, uneasy grin.
Before anyone could interject, the verdict fell.
“Seize the enabler of Duke Camelot’s graft and phantom accounts!”
Her hesitant words sealed it; guards hauled her off without delay.
Andrew trailed in irons for grilling as well.
The rest of the crew got herded outside while Finance Ministry quarters fell under full lockdown.
Soldiers and sleuths rifled drawers and stacks, amassing damning hauls in silence.
A heavy hush gripped the group, faces etched with disbelief.
No one bore the blow harder than I did.
Friends aware of my bond with Connie edged away, wary of guilt by whisper.
Others cast wary sidelong darts.
Yet many pitied my drained complexion and murmured reassurances.
I acknowledged their kindness with quiet grace while turmoil churned inward.
Confusion swirled around Connie’s sudden entanglement.
Three now detained for bolstering Duke Camelot’s corruption: illicit gains and off-books caches.
That western ledger served as the linchpin.
He’d drawn it straight from Andrew’s regional tallies, innocent of any noble schemes.
A flaw lurked in the chain somewhere.
Ninety percent revolved around iron shipments.
Interwoven obligations among clans had snarled every trail.
Duke Camelot might have twisted those ore ties for dirty money.
The emperor had likely pieced clues from submissions or spies, homing in on the scribe to lock the proof.
Trades etched in western journals, forwarded for audit, then bundled neat.
Pinpointing the sabotage proved the riddle.
Renowned for iron-fisted justice, the sovereign spared the blameless.
He stood clear of Camelot’s taint.
The shadow of false accusation grated, though reason would soon absolve him.
At most, temporary discomfort.
Connie’s involvement made no sense.
With her already in custody, confessing true origins spelled disaster.
Admission now swelled the palace cells from three to four.
Until then, he masked remorse behind feigned frustration at her overreach, yearning for her swift clearance.
Whispers spread of Donovan and Andrew washing hands clean, branding Connie the instigator—her burden alone.
Heather sought him out to relay the betrayal, igniting silent oaths against the pair.
Onlookers peering from panes scattered at the uproar.
Public ire rarely surfaced; fury typically sharpened his calm.
He feigned a storming charge to the holding cells, collar in fist, even as reason reclaimed the reins.
Donovan’s demeanor rang hollow.
Andrew flung blame in raw panic, but Donovan recited from some hidden cue sheet.
That stunned disbelief replayed unnaturally.
Panic demanded vows of purity or feigned ignorance.
His poise hinted at ironclad evasion.
Deeper clues fueled the hunch. Why sideline Andrew for Connie on the chore?
He’d brushed it off instinctively, yet chaos now validated the flicker.
Echoes resurfaced of his light jab to her: Donovan eyed her as pliable clay.
A nameless orphan from temple care, she’d shone early.
Clergy penned endorsements, linked benefactors, paved academy entry.
Top marks led to palace service sans elite strings.
Donovan as mastermind meant her doom scripted from the outset.
Vain yet small-minded, ever scheming.
A burrow-digging hare, hedging every bet.
Safe in his delusion, he’d burrowed backups?
Validation threatened Connie gravely.
Bitterness stung for ignoring gut warnings days back.
Hindsight screamed for sharper wariness.
Dwelling helped nothing now.
Uneasy patches in the ledger demanded scrutiny.
Exhaustion had blurred them amid haste, but dissecting western entries would expose forgeries.
In silence, he charted the path ahead.
