The room suffocated in silence—not the peaceful quiet of dawn, nor the reverent hush of a library. This was the silence of dread, thick and oppressive.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Noem's quill froze mid-sentence. Across the cramped office, Hertzl scratched frantically at his parchment, ink splotching like dark blood across the page. His grey eyes held the desperate gleam of a man watching his world crumble, one number at a time.
"What's the point of this?" Noem's voice cut through the tension.
Hertzl didn't look up. He seemed entranced by the void of empty parchment before him, lost in a world where black ink might somehow hold meaning—hopeless meaning, but meaning nonetheless.
His quill finally stilled. He set the finished document atop a growing stack, then lifted his weathered gaze to meet Noem's worried stare.
"We'll try the imperial magistrate tomorrow," Hertzl said, his voice carrying the weight of years spent preparing for disasters just like this one. "In all my years, I've learned to account for such contingencies."
Noem leaned forward over his own desk, the ledger before him a testament to their troubles. "I've recorded all the losses. This quarter shows the greatest deficit in our firm's history."
"The wartime exigency laws will end soon enough."
"Not before operating costs bury us six feet under."
Hertzl's fingers drummed against the desk. "Not if we send these letters to the regency college. If they won't listen to law, then he'll listen to reputation."
"He?"
"The Duke of Cambrá."
Noem rubbed his index finger with his thumb—a nervous habit that had intensified over the past weeks. "That doesn't sound particularly clever."
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A faint, bitter laugh escaped Hertzl's lips. "You've seen the numbers, boy. We're well past clever."
"Will we even last long enough? Even if your letter works?"
"That's exactly what I've been calculating." Hertzl gestured to his stack of documents. "I just need someone reliable to move the stock."
"I'm familiar with merchant trading. Shouldn't be any trouble."
Hertzl's expression darkened. "You're not used to this particular clientele. I'll need to find some security—someone I don't need to pay upfront."
"What's the st—"
Rap. Rap. Rap.
The knock at the door silenced Noem mid-sentence. Both men froze, sharing a breath as still as glass.
Another knock followed.
Noem rose and strode to the door, his hand hesitating for just a moment before turning the handle. Outside stood his father, Zaruchel, his weathered face carved with deep lines that spoke of hard years and harder choices.
Behind him loomed a young man in a blood-stained uniform, the brown stains telling stories of battles long past. A scar split his lip like a tally mark, and his eyes held that particular dullness that came from seeing too much. His frame filled the doorway—it couldn't be possible, and yet...
"Izkhaael came back," Zaruchel announced simply.
"How?" The word tumbled from Noem's lips.
Izkhaael's scarred mouth curved into a smile. "I walked."
From his desk, Hertzl called out, "Why didn't you write ahead?"
Izkhaael shook his head with dark amusement. "Is letter-writing a family tradition, or are you and Father actually the same person?"
Noem grinned despite everything. "They sure seem to be sometimes."
The clock's ticking returned, somehow louder now, as if it sensed the weight of the moment. Ten deliberate ticks passed in absolute silence.
Hertzl finally broke it with a sharp tap against his desk. "No, Zaruchel is diligent, but not nearly as clever as I am."
"Clever?" Zaruchel's eyebrows rose. "I think you mean indolent."
Hertzl's tapping quickened, his brief moment of levity draining away as his gaze fell upon the ledger. The numbers didn't lie, and they certainly didn't forgive.
"It's finally caught up with us," he said quietly.
"What has?"
"They defaulted."
"Who defaulted?"
"Our debtors." Hertzl's voice carried the finality of a funeral bell.
"How many?"
"All of them."
