In Cyfaraun, the city keeps a book on everyone.
  Kessra sold a friend to eat. Torv ran while his brother died. Rhen believed a recruiter’s promise of marble halls. When Legate Vandelus Pylon posts two thousand gold for loggers vanished in the Viaspen, the trio take the work—because hunger doesn’t care about pride.
  Their trail runs from the Street of Wolves and the Old District’s graycoats to sickly forts along the Krysivor, where a ferryman mutters that Raft Twelve never came back. In the green maze they find human raiders, a heretic crescent-and-thorn sigil that’s nothing like the city’s badge, and a White Lady shrine where a survivor whispers: “the ruins need blood.” In the rubble waits a pulsing Stone of Cyfandir—and the ghosts of the debts they swore to forget.
  Back in Türos Tem, a Watch envoy offers silence for a price while polished Prefectural cards “thank” them for their service. Rhen’s faith cracks. Kessra’s ledger of scars stings. Torv stops counting the nicks on his hands.
  Tomorrow means the Old District, the Prefecture, and whatever the Stone is calling toward in the ruins of Cyfandir. The city balances ledgers. The forest collects.
  A sandbox tale of knives, bureaucracy, and bad debts set in the Auran Empire—where hope is expensive and someone always tallies the cost.