Minas Tirith, the Lord's Mansion.
Velin stared at the ledger in his study, the tip of his quill hovering over the paper, hesitating to fall.
The flames in the fireplace danced, casting the shadows of long strings of numbers onto the wall, making them look like monsters with gaping maws.
Tristan stood by Velin's side. Seeing his lord unusually silent, he spoke softly, "My Lord, is there a problem with the accounts?"
"A big one." Velin set down his quill and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If my calculations are correct, at our current rate of consumption, the Grey Marsh Territory's finances will be deep in the red in three months."
Tristan's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly on the folder he was holding.
Of course, he knew the source of the problem—the three Leviathans. The Level 5 Magical Beasts were like three bottomless pits, devouring the territory's wealth each day.
