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:: You're passing the inn on your way to the smith when you :: :: notice one of the curtains caught on something near the :: :: window frame, slightly askew so that a sliver of light :: :: cuts cleanly out into the street. Inside, the glow of :: :: lanterns catches on the angles of her face. :: :: :: :: You didn't come to snoop, but curiosity compels you... :: The young woman you know only as as Ashalia sits alone at the corner table, where she has an easy view of the door and all patrons. A cup of tea rests near her elbow, long gone cold. The absence of steam tells you she hasn't touched it in some time. Her sleeves are rolled up, and there's no ink on her hands, no scattered papers - everything is neat, deliberate, and slow. Looking at her face, you recognize the expression of someone working a blade, not a pen. But perhaps, in her case, the difference is academic. She's copying something. The first page is a quiet memo between bureaucrats - nothing critical on its own. A few altered words, a shift in tone, and the projected grain yields seem significantly more favorable than they really are. Just enough to justify heavier investment. The second is a personal letter. Warm. Familiar. It speaks of a merchant's daughter, her engagement, her family's expanding interest in southern dyes. The names are real. You recognize some of the names. As you watch, she adjusts the wording of a single sentence and quietly implies insider knowledge of a new trade route. But you know that area. You know that route doesn't exist. As she pauses to change the color of the ink with a bit of pigment, you notice that the handwriting of each matches exactly, as if her hand has done it a hundred times before. The third letter is written in the style of a merchant's update. Crisp, precise, all the right phrases. It details a delay in scheduled iron shipments from Sanhae, paired with warnings of labor unrest at the port, and subtle hints of trade routes shifting east. No direct claims, just enough to raise concern and pique interest. At the bottom, a quiet note: "Recommendation: divest before third quarter. Expect volatility." It isn't until this point that you begin to understand. Names. Trade routes. Rumors of drought near the Gogoon coast. A whisper about grain spoilage in the northern holds. Harmless enough on their own, but the pattern tells another story. This is the sort of lie designed not just to mislead, but to guide. A push here, a pull there. Enough to nudge a man into ruin, one "lucky tip" at a time. The seals, which you realize must be forged, each match those on the original letters. The kind of correspondence that could shift an entire portfolio. Or fracture an alliance. Enough to tighten the noose with silk ribbon and good advice. She folds it once, neatly, and sets it aside. You step back before she turns her head. You don't think she noticed. You hope not. You walk away, doing your best to ignore the itch between your shoulder blades. | |