The note was short enough that Beorn had finished reading it twice before Lewin turned fully for the doorway. He considered leaving it beside the report on the desk, then changed his mind and folded it into his coat instead.

The choice meant something. Lewin noticed, though he gave no indication beyond continuing toward the corridor.

They walked together without discussing where they were going. Lewin’s people occupied this section of the citadel complex, beyond the scent of the kitchens and the records room, past the stairwell that descended toward the guards garrison.

"How did you identify them?" Beorn asked.

"Behavioral patterns," Lewin said. "They didn’t move like refugees."

Lewin adjusted his gloves as they walked. "My people observed the building they were using for two days. Their schedule, the way they rationed food, the way they managed movement through the district, none of it matched the surrounding slums population."

So they had stayed disciplined even after entering the slums. That took planning, or training, or both.

"How long have they been here?"

"Approximately two weeks. They came in during the fourth major influx."

A couple weeks among the refugees was long enough for most people to break down. The roads outside of Ashmark stripped people quickly. Hunger, theft, sickness, exhaustion.

Any one of those could have finished them before they reached the city. The fact that none had suggested competent management, likely the steward.

"The note mentioned a princess," Beorn said. "What’s her condition?"

"Tired, not ill."

Lewin paused briefly before continuing.

"Dissatisfied with the room."

Beorn glanced at him.

"My people moved them into a proper chamber this morning." Lewin said evenly.

"She considered it inadequate."

That told Beorn multiple things at once. Either the girl still expected noble treatment after months on refugee roads, or maintaining those expectations had become part of how she kept herself from breaking down.

They reached the chamber secured by two intelligence operatives, one man and one woman. Lewin stopped beside the door without explanation.

Beorn pushed the door open and entered alone.

The chamber was larger than the standard rooms. There were two chairs around a low table near the center, and the window admitted clean morning light without the worst glare.

It was enough comfort to demonstrate hospitality, but not enough to imply status.

Beorn reckoned the princess understood the distinction immediately. She stood near the window with her arms folded, watching the doorway as if evaluating whether the room itself represented an insult.

She was fifteen.

There was a particular awareness in the way she held herself, a posture of who had learned early that people reacted to her appearance and had adapted accordingly.

Her green eyes caught the light sharply enough to draw attention even against his intentions. Her black hair remained carefully arranged despite the journey.

To maintain that routine after months on the road required either discipline or stubbornness. Possibly both.

The steward sat near the table. He started to rise when Beorn entered, then completed the motion fully before sitting again.

Every movement was exact. Years of court formalities had turned the sequence automatic.

His clothing contradicted the rest of him. The garments had once been formal enough for administrative service, but the road had reduced them to whatever scraps.

His face showed exhaustion, though not the dull exhaustion of age. This was recent strain repeated for too long without interruption. His hands rested motionless on the chair arms.

"Are you the prince?" the girl said before Beorn fully crossed the doorway.

Her tone carried mild disappointment rather than surprise.

"I expected a formal audience chamber. This room..."

She looked around openly, without any instinct to disguise the criticism. "This would be acceptable for a merchant negotiation, perhaps! I am Princess Mathild of Brennmark. I have been waiting here since morning, and the linens are not even remotely-"

"My lady," the steward said.

Nothing more.

The interruption worked immediately. Mathild stopped, her mouth tightening with familiar frustration.

Beorn guessed this was not the first time the steward had stopped her away from saying exactly what she thought.

Curiously, that meant she still listened to him.

Beorn crossed the room and sat opposite the steward.

"How long were you traveling?" He didn’t bother with pleasantries or to greet them.

The steward didn’t immediately reply. He looked over Beorn first, as if gauging how sincere he should be. "Four months."

A careful answer. "From Brennmark. The first three weeks were conducted with urgency. After that we entered the exile routes and adjusted our pace to the movement those routes were known for."

"I hope the current accommodations are appropriate?"

The steward nodded. "The princess spent several nights without adequate shelter. We began the journey with sufficient resources, but attrition reduced them steadily over distance."

He folded his hands together before continuing.

"At present we are fed and housed adequately."

He stopped there on purpose, in a way it made obvious he didn’t request for aid. Or at least not yet, he was still considering whether this meeting represented opportunity, danger, or negotiation.

"That is fortunate. What’s your name?" Beorn asked.

"Heinrich. Former Hand of Brennmark’s Crown."

He placed a slight pause before ’former."

"Heinrich," Beorn said. "Tell me about Brennmark, where it is located?"

"Brennmark was one of the southern kingdoms within the Wimbach Valley ."

Beorn knew the area mostly through trade reports and military summaries. About the political instability, the mid-level regional conflicts, fragmented noble authority.

Enough instability to disrupt commerce periodically, but never enough to unify the neighboring states against it. That was the extent of his understanding.

"Explain the administrative structure."

Beorn didn’t bother to hide his interest. "The revenue flow, relationship between the crown and the outer territories."

Heinrich studied him briefly.

Testing the question, probably. Determining whether Beorn understood enough to make the explanation worthwhile, and if there was any harm in answering sincerely.

Apparently satisfied, he began. "Brennmark’s revenue system worked through noble intermediaries. Each major noble house collected taxes within its own territory, then remitted a treaty-fixed portion to the crown."

He leaned back slightly in the chair.

"The critical flaw was that the remittance amounts were static."

"So the crown was always working from false numbers."

"That is the simplified version, yes," Heinrich said.

Meaning the real version was worse.

"Has Brennmark ever conducted a census?"

For the first time, Heinrich shifted slightly in his chair.

"Not recently, no."

His fingers tightened once against the armrest. "The existing registration records were maintained by noble administrators and reflected whatever information the houses found convenient to report. In practice, records were adjusted toward the minimum population figures necessary to appear compliant with crown obligations."

Which meant the tax base existed entirely at noble discretion.

"So the nobles determined how much wealth officially existed," Beorn said.

"Precisely. The king spent the last eighteen years attempting to correct this."

Heinrich’s voice remained even, though the pace slowed slightly. "We began constructing a centralized registration system tied directly to crown administrators rather than noble self-reporting. Every household recorded by name, location, and household size, the records stored under crown authority instead of noble authority."

He paused.

"The revenue cross-referenced against trade records so discrepancies could be identified."

Heinrich stopped speaking.

Beorn realized his attention focused at some point during the explanation. He couldn’t remember when.

Because he understood exactly what the man was describing.

An absolute monarchy that had tried to govern itself properly for the first time.

"I imagine the nobility didn’t accept these changes." Beorn said.

"They escalated beyond resistance."

Heinrich sighed. "An accurate census would have revealed the exact scale of stolen revenue and taxation by every noble household."

He glanced briefly toward the window before continuing. "Once those numbers existed, the crown would have moral and legal reason to persecute the nobility and seize their territories. The houses recognized the threat before the crown completed the implementation."

Near the window, Mathild had lowered her arms.

She watched the conversation differently now. Her expression had lost the carefully managed superiority she had entered with.

She still stood by the window, but her balance had shifted slightly, attention pulled fully toward the discussion despite herself.

She hadn’t expected this conversation either.

Beorn looked over the steward.

"The revolt succeeded," he said.

"It did."

Heinrich answered. "Not because the nobility acted in unity. They did not. Three of the seven major houses either supported reform or remained neutral."

His expression remained steady.

"The remaining four proved sufficient to take over the capital."

He said it without bitterness. There was no time for it, and now, he was more interested in why this foreign prince asked him these questions.

Beorn remembered the problems he struggled for weeks now.

How at the bottom of the administrative page in the ledger, the word census remained written beside a circled question mark exactly where he had left it.

An unsolved problem.

One that required trained administrators to solve correctly. And Ashmark did not possess trained administrators.

Until now, perhaps.

He looked back at Heinrich.

"How long would it take for you to learn how Ashmark works?"