Back in the loft above the stables, the lantern light picks out the red wax seal on the race papers, the same seal Bobinko saw in the registration tent.
Bobinko turns the document in his hands. Under the wax, a jagged scratch catches the light, a hidden cut that should not be there.
Lazlo
That is no official mark. It is a lie pressed into wax.
The truth lands hard, then clicks into place with the old dispute over the boundary stones. The Tryars never meant only to win a race, they meant to win the land.
Lazlo
They forged the wager. If they call this lawful, they can twist every stone after the race.
Below them, the stall shifts and a soft snort rises from the straw, while Iron-Hoof stamps once, ready and waiting.
Bobinko Kozlov
The seal is the trap. The race is only the door.
Lazlo straightens, eyes hard, and reaches for the harness gear as the quiet loft turns from hiding place into a war room.
Expose the forged race papers