Sarn Ice-Ledger

Sarn Ice-Ledger keeps the Stormwall Icehawks' Meridian Annex books the way pit accountants keep teeth — quietly, in columns nobody reads until the season ends wrong.

He is human Concord stock, mid-forties, with the soft hands of a man who has never worn claw-grip boots and the tired eyes of a man who has priced every shock-rig hit on the lattice. Republic-blue tie, frost-glass calculator stylus, a ledger tablet that syncs to Karth Deep on a delay he controls. He smells like citrus sanitizer and cold metal because the rink concourse bleeds through the back-office airlock and he never leaves before the waiver desk closes.

Outsiders meet him as hospitality odds — side wagers, syndication bundles, "harmless" lattice pools that already have docket numbers. Insiders know he moved syndication escrow through phantom replay-chip SKUs and phantom hospitality vendors until the numbers looked like discipline instead of theft. When compliance officer Ira Storm-Check walks the corridor, Sarn smiles like the lattice owes him rent and offers tea that tastes like apology.

The bounty posting calls him Books Sarn on the wire. The club calls him indispensable until the audit does not.