At the new foundation, the first corner post stands true and the frame lifts half a span above the soil. Then the reeve’s clerk returns, breathless, with two guards and a waxed packet. The packet seals itself with a thin gold pulse.

Mara steps closer to the post, hand on the fresh timber. Walter and Nezznar keep to the rear, silent and watchful. The guards do not advance, but their eyes keep flicking to Kynes’s palm.

Bren lays the deed ledger open beside the post. Its entries are clean, blunt, and old enough to shame the office script. The gold pulse in the packet hesitates, as if reading.

The clerk’s face tightens. For a moment, the reeve’s seal, the deed, and Kynes’s mark seem to weigh the same in the air. The frame of the house waits, unfinished, in the quiet wind.

Kynes leaves Phandelver behind and arrives at Reeve's office.

Reeve’s office is all ink, dust, and hard daylight, with ledgers stacked like little walls around a broad oak desk. Kynes arrives in a wash of shadow, the dark veil still clinging to him as it thins.

The words cut through the room, simple and flat. A clerk looks up from the desk, startled, while two guards shift their weight and square their shoulders.

Kynes folds the sea of shadows over himself and void-steps past the desk in one silent blur, leaving only a cold smear of dusk where he stood.

He lands beside the records cabinet behind the clerk’s station, already seeing the office’s true shape, the copied seals, the fresh wax, the filing order that points deeper than the man at the desk.

The clerk’s packet gives off a faint gold pulse, but the pulse stutters now, caught off balance by Kynes’s sudden arrival and the shadow still curling from his boots.

Kynes lets the silence hang just long enough to make the clerk blink. The office feels smaller with him inside it, all those ledgers suddenly looking like evidence instead of furniture.

The clerk lowers the waxed packet a fraction. His alarm shifts into something careful, the look of a man deciding how much truth he can survive saying aloud.

He glances toward the disturbed cabinet, then back to Kynes. The gold pulse in the packet steadies, no longer stuttering, as if the office itself has accepted the confession.

The clerk slides the packet onto the desk beside a half-open ledger, exposing a copied seal and a line of fresh wax. For Kynes, the shape of the lie is now plain, and so is the man behind it.

Kynes crosses the room in one clean motion, staff in hand, and the clerk backs from the desk just enough to make room for movement. The copied seal and fresh wax sit exposed like a confession that has decided to be useful.

The clerk swallows, then nods once, too wary to pretend this is still his office to control. He snatches up the waxed packet and turns it, showing Kynes the seal as if it were a route marker.

He pulls a slim key from beneath the ledger and sets it beside the packet. The gold pulse in the wax quiets to a faint, nervous glow.

Kynes takes the key, and the clerk's shoulders loosen by a fraction, as if passing it over has cost him less than keeping it. Beyond the office door, the building stays still, waiting for whatever comes next.

Kynes turns the slim archive key over in his palm, his thumb catching on a series of jagged, unnatural indentations along the metal shaft. The gold wax from the packet has left a faint, sticky residue on the key's bow, and beneath the grime, the metal itself is etched with the same pulsing, rhythmic script that Aster Vale uses to bind his records.

Kynes lifts the archive key and snaps a tight circle of force above his own head. The air splits with a clean, gold-edged seam, and the office floor shudders as the pull catches on hidden wards. The clerk jerks upright just as the seam widens under him.

Light pours down like a shallow well. The clerk drops through it with a startled curse, coat flaring, boots scraping empty air. The portal closes around him and spits him out hard on the rug in front of Kynes, where the key’s red pulse answers with a sharp, rhythmic flare.

He lands on one knee, breath gone, then looks up and pales at the sight of Kynes waiting over him. The records cabinet rattles once behind him. The gold wax on the key has gone almost black, but the etched script keeps beating like a second pulse.

The clerk swallows, looks toward the back stair, and shifts aside enough to clear the way. The dim room holds steady for one thin, dangerous beat, with the key glowing red in Kynes’s hand and the passage to Aster Vale left open.

Kynes twists the key toward the open stair, but his spell goes farther. Aster Vale catches in the far side of the breach as if a hidden hook has found his coat, and the portal jerks tight.

The breach brightens with a hard gold rim. Through it, a startled figure lurches into view, dragged off balance and half turned toward the office as the key’s red pulse lashes back at him.

The clerk flinches away from the opening, face draining of color. The records cabinet rattles again, and loose papers slide from its top in a little white spill.

Kynes tightens his hold, and the unseen grip on Aster Vale shifts with a sharp snap of resistance. The man is hauled fully to the threshold, close enough to seize, while the stair beyond him gapes open and unguarded.

The clerk swallows hard and backs aside, shaking a finger toward the rear passage. "He is right there now, if you mean to finish this."

Kynes keeps his grip on the key and lets the words land cleanly. The portal light throws gold across Aster Vale’s face as the Reeve stops fighting the pull and listens.

The clerk blinks at that, then looks down at the spilled papers as if the office itself has betrayed him. The records cabinet trembles once more, then steadies.

Aster Vale swallows, the fight draining out of his shoulders. He shifts his gaze from Kynes to the open stair and gives a tight, unwilling nod, as if the truth costs him more than the threat ever did.

Kynes lets the shadows climb him, and his outline swells into a horned, hungry silhouette that makes the office seem smaller. The clerk recoils, and Aster Vale goes still at once, eyes fixed on the shape Kynes makes.

The question lands like a blade set flat on a table. Aster Vale drags one hand across his mouth, looks past Kynes to the scattered records, and finally gives ground.

Aster Vale flinches at that, then reaches down with two fingers and nudges a fallen sheet toward the desk lamp. The page shows the river terrace, the five-node chain copied in the margin, and a fresh red notation crossed out hard enough to tear the paper fibers.

Kynes lets the horned shadow peel away, his outline shrinking back to a drow’s narrow shape. The office air feels less crushed at once, though the open portal still burns in the room.

He void-steps in a blink, the desk, records, and reef of shadow snapping out of place behind him. The clerk and Aster Vale are left staring at the empty air where he stood.

Kynes lands beside Bren in a clean cut of darkness, one hand already lowering his staff. The faint red thread on his archive key goes still.

Behind him, in the office, the clerk draws the river terrace sheet closer and points at the old notch marked on the boundary line. Aster Vale stays quiet, watching both the paper and the portal.

Kynes lets the grin stay sharp as he looks toward the office opening. The words land like a blade wrapped in silk, and the clerk’s shoulders tighten at once.

Bren’s mouth twitches despite herself. Behind her, the clerk goes red with embarrassed fury, and Aster Vale stares at the floor notch instead of meeting Kynes’s eyes.

The clerk slides the sheet forward anyway, more careful now, and taps the old notch on the boundary line as if it might excuse him from the moment.

Kynes keeps his staff low, but the office has changed. The clerk is subdued, Aster Vale is cornered by his own paper, and the river terrace claim sits in plain sight, waiting for the final mark.