Morning crept in through the high windows of the Varnhart estate, dull and gray. Not quite rain, not quite sun—just the kind of light that made the dust in the halls seem thicker than usual. Leonel sat at the long dining table, untouched bread on his plate, fingers idly tracing a line in the wood grain while his thoughts darted ahead of him.
Boots echoed on the flagstone.
A servant stepped into the room, half-bowing. "The merchant guild is here, my lord. They request your presence in the front hall."
Leonel was on his feet before the sentence finished. He nodded once and followed without another word, heart quickening but face flat. Down the corridor, past cracked stonework and aging banners that hung like tired reminders of better years, he moved with quiet, focused urgency.
At the main entrance, the doors stood slightly ajar.
Inside the vestibule, the merchant was already waiting—well-dressed, with the kind of posture that came from counting gold all day and answering to no one. A younger clerk stood behind him, holding a leather satchel sealed with a waxed Varnhart insignia.
"Lord Varnhart," the merchant greeted. "A good morning to you."
Leonel gave a slow nod. "You're earlier than expected."
"We like to move quickly when profits are involved."
The man smiled in that way merchants did—friendly without offering warmth. He extended a folded parchment. Leonel took it, his eyes scanning line by line. Dozens of transactions. Seals from nobles in three different provinces. Orders for more. Two mage towers had each requested bulk contracts.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until it left him in a quiet exhale.
"We sold out everything," the merchant said. "Every pen, every vial. Demand is growing."
The younger clerk stepped forward, unslinging the satchel and offering it with both hands.
Leonel took it slowly, fingers closing around the strap before lifting it from the boy's arms. The weight surprised him—not in mass, but in meaning. Heavy. Solid. Real.
He didn't need to open it. He knew.
"Your share," the merchant said, tone businesslike. "Five hundred and sixty gold."
Leonel gave a short nod.
The merchant shifted slightly, then reached into his coat and pulled out another slip of parchment. "These are the noble households and towers that wish to place further orders. You'll find the quantities listed. We await your next move."
Leonel tucked the list under his arm. "You'll get it soon."
"Excellent." A courteous bow, then the merchant turned on polished heels and left, the clerk hurrying behind him.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled over the hall for a moment, the kind of quiet that only came when gold and purpose sat side by side. Leonel adjusted the strap of the coin pouch, his other hand brushing the corner of the parchment tucked beneath his arm.
One thousand, three hundred and twenty.
That was the total now.
His breath fogged slightly as he turned away from the door, boots whispering over stone as he started back toward the council wing.
No celebration. No grin.
Just the steady pulse of forward motion.
He passed the empty sitting room where the curtains never opened anymore, and the half-abandoned gallery where old swords hung crooked on the walls. This house was full of ghosts—not just of people, but of decisions, of things left to rot.
Not anymore.
At the far end of the hall, the council wing's heavy oak doors stood closed. He paused in front of them for the briefest second, feeling the warmth of the pouch against his hip.
Fingers curled tighter around the strap.
Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The council chamber smelled faintly of old parchment and colder regrets.
Leonel stepped inside without knocking, the weight of the coin pouch dragging slightly against his belt. He let the heavy oak door thud shut behind him without ceremony.
At the far end of the long table, Lord Varnhart sat hunched over a sheaf of brittle papers, his scarred fingers pinching the corner of one page, lifting it, reading, discarding it with a quiet grunt. Ink stains freckled the ledger at his elbow. A broken quill lay abandoned beside an empty cup of watered wine.
He didn't look up.
Leonel crossed the room with measured steps, boots soft against the worn rushes covering the stone floor. The pouch bounced lightly against his side with every stride, a rhythm he forced himself not to acknowledge.
Nearer now, the crack in the window frame caught his eye—a hairline fracture slicing through the stained glass crest of Varnhart. A detail he hadn't noticed before.
It suited the room.
Leonel stopped at the edge of the table. No announcement. No clearing of throat. No formal titles.
He reached into his coat, untied the leather strap of the pouch, and upended it over the nearest clear patch of table.
Coins spilled out in a muted, heavy rush. They glittered in the dusty light seeping through the broken window, small suns trapped between crumbling ledgers.
The sound finally pulled Lord Varnhart's gaze upward.
No flicker of surprise. No raised brows. Just that slow, flat stare — the one that measured a man down to the marrow.
Leonel waited until those pale, tired eyes settled fully on him before speaking.
"Two hundred seventy," he said. "Pay the staff first. Then fix whatever's collapsing next."
His voice came out steady, even clipped. No plea hidden inside it. No request for approval.
Lord Varnhart leaned back in his chair, folding arms thick with old muscle across his chest. The chair creaked faintly under the shift of weight.
For a moment, neither moved.
Outside, a crow cawed once, the sound thin and ugly against the brittle morning air.
Leonel kept his chin level.
Lord Varnhart's gaze dragged across the pile of coins, slow as a blade across leather. His fingers flexed once on the table's edge, as if considering whether to reach for them—or knock them to the floor.
The tension held, stretched taut between them.
A slow, shallow nod broke it.
Just once.
Leonel breathed once through his nose, nodded once in return, and turned on his heel without waiting for dismissal.
As he reached the door, he caught a flicker of motion at the corner of his eye — Lord Varnhart shifting the coins into neat, even stacks with careful, methodical hands.
No ceremony.
No thanks.
It was enough.
The corridor outside felt colder than before, as if the shadows themselves had thickened in the short time he'd been gone.
Leonel walked fast, passing the cracked gallery again, the chipped armor stands, the moth-eaten banners drooping along the walls. All reminders of what had been allowed to rot while pride and debt gnawed through the bones of the house.
No more.
He reached the small scribe's office tucked behind the east stairwell and pushed the door open with the side of his boot.
Empty, as usual. Just a battered writing desk, a few sticks of sealing wax, a half-drunk bottle of ink drying in its cracked inkwell.
Leonel grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, trimmed the edge with a flick of the knife he kept tucked into his boot, and laid it flat on the desk.
The quill scratched a harsh rhythm against the page:
Merchant Guild,
Prepare the following for immediate purchase and delivery:
High-grade iron ore, bulk order.
Myrrhroot resin, crystal flecks, ashbark pulp.
Send confirmation within the day.
Formalize exclusive rights contract for future inventions and distributions.
Priority marked: Varnhart seal.
He pressed the house signet into the soft wax and waited a heartbeat for it to cool.
The letter rolled into a tight, clean scroll. He tied it with simple twine—no frills, no pomp—and left it on the delivery tray for the next available runner.
Done.
Leonel straightened, rolling his shoulders to work the tightness out. The slight ache in his fingers reminded him how tightly he'd gripped the quill.
Outside the narrow window, the sun had begun its slow crawl westward, staining the sky with a bruised gold.
Still too much day left to waste.
He crossed back through the halls quickly, passing a pair of maids whispering anxiously by the cold hearth. They dipped shallow curtsies, eyes down, the way peasants looked at the condemned.
Leonel didn't slow.
At the far end of the southern wing, he found what he needed.
The old workshop.
Once his uncle's private domain. Now his.
The heavy door groaned as it opened under his hand. Dust moated in the shaft of light that pierced the gloom, settling over piles of forgotten tools, shattered wood frames, broken chains.
He stepped inside and let the door close behind him.
Cleared a corner with quick, sharp movements — tossing aside splintered planks, rolling a rusted anvil out of the way, kicking a rat-nibbled stool against the wall.
Space.
Enough for blueprints. Enough for building.
Enough for war, if it came to that.
Leonel wiped his palms against his trousers and surveyed the bare patch of floor, the stretch of cracked stone wall, the heavy beams above where hooks still dangled like skeletal fingers.
Good.
A start.