The partners are probably dead, but junior associate Lluïsa Oriol i Cornellà is being careful.

An hour before dawn each day, she wakes up, in her small Westcrown lodgings, and prepares spells. Depending on the day's supply levels, she may eat a small amount of food, or clean herself with precious water rather than save it all for drinking. She can spell her clothes clean, and herself to an extent, though wiping herself with a cloth on a day with abundant water and spelling it clean is more effective; she only ever had two sets of office clothes, and one cloak and pair of boots, and no attorney's capirote, that's hardly something the partners would let her wear.

A little after dawn, she walks to the office, unlocking it with her key. She takes her usual bench in the empty place and rations the dwindling ink on busy-work she's set herself in case the partners return; you know, we never really had a good system for filing drafts, and while you were out, I organized the last six years with this new system, and I hope that's not too much initiative, sir.

She works until well after sunset, because it wouldn't do to have the partners walk in to an empty office in the evening. No break for lunch; what would the point be? But there's plenty of drinkable water at the office, even if there isn't going to be enough ink for much longer, and out of an abundance of caution she won't write a single jot in blood, because who knows what the new rulers would think of that?

Also out of an abundance of caution, she hasn't bound a single devil, even though she could justify more impressive ones than the usual courier lemures befitting her station, with the office short-staffed as it is. It's probably not legal anymore, though it's not like anyone's done the firm the favor of mailing a new code of laws to the doorstep.

Once a week, she goes to the partners' office to knock on the door, and knock on the safe, and carefully pay herself her prorated salary, and close the safe, and close the door, and deposit the interest payment on her law license into a carefully hidden phantom trapped box, which she hopes to upgrade to real traps soon. The lender is nowhere to be found, but she was very careful in her research, and it's not a breach to have a licensed lawyer hold the payments in escrow, even if the lawyer is herself. Though the documentation must be utterly comprehensive, and it spends precious ink, and it can't be the firm's ink, but her own even more precious store.

Seven years of this is all she needs to endure, by law, and the debt (as long as it's meticulously paid by escrow) is annulled as abandoned, the firm dissolved likewise, and she'll have drawn all the funds in the safe as salary well before that already so the disposition of its assets hardly matters.

All assuming that the law remains as it was. And why wouldn't it, at least for debts?