A couple of days after the banquet, the meeting took place in one of the palace's private council chambers—a long room paneled in rich walnut, its high windows shuttered to deter eavesdroppers. Light glowed from glass-covered lanterns suspended above, casting a warm, golden hue on the polished table that stretched nearly the length of the chamber. The only others present besides the handpicked guards outside the door were the Crown Prince, the Grand Duke, and Earl Anthony James Whitman.
The air carried a weight of restrained formality, but beneath it simmered something more dangerous: truth.
Anthony bowed as expected and offered a respectful, measured greeting. "Your Highness. Your Grace."
The Crown Prince, poised in posture but sharp-eyed, inclined his head. "Lord Whitman. Thank you for arriving so promptly. I trust the banquet did not tire you."
"Hardly. It was a great honor for my family, and I appreciate the invitation."
The Grand Duke, hands clasped behind his back, studied the Earl in silence before stepping forward. "Then we shall get to the point. The ports are bleeding coin. Trade is flourishing, yet the empire receives less revenue than projected."
Anthony's eyes narrowed.
"Smuggling, bribery, forged taxes," the Grand Duke said. "And at the center of these issues lie companies with wide influence. Sutherland Trading Company among them."
The words hung in the air. The Crown Prince watched Anthony carefully.
Anthony exhaled slowly. " Indeed. My company is bleeding as well. I suspected something deeper when I saw our port expenses last quarter. But I didn't realize the empire was already investigating."
"We've been tracking these patterns quietly for several seasons," the Crown Prince admitted. "We summoned you today not to accuse—but to request your cooperation."
Anthony gave a curt nod. "You shall have it."
Edward stepped forward as Anthony reached into his coat and pulled out a leather folder—singed along the edges, fastened tightly. He placed it on the table.
"From the Sutherland warehouse fire," he said. "My men managed to salvage fragments of documents before the flames overtook the building."
The Crown Prince opened the folder. Inside were charred pages—ledger entries, shipping manifests, letters coded with euphemistic phrases like "tide fees" and "dock considerations."
"Some names and dates are still legible," Anthony explained. "And some contradict what the company later submitted officially."
The Crown Prince and Grand Duke exchanged a look. The Grand Duke slowly smiled.
"This is more than we'd hoped for."
"I am currently digging further," Anthony said. "Some directors are... protective of tradition. I'll need discretion."
"You'll have it," the Grand Duke assured him.
The Crown Prince leaned forward. "We also intend to consolidate and cross-reference documents from various sources: seized ledgers, port records, regional statements. It's chaos, frankly."
"And that," the Grand Duke added with a knowing glance, "brings us to a suggestion."
Anthony looked between the two royals.
"Lady Whitman," the Grand Duke said smoothly, "has demonstrated exceptional organizational acumen—her business records are among the most accurate we've seen."
Anthony straightened, wariness in his eyes.
"I also heard that she had been instrumental in organizing the documents you were able to salvage in that fire," Edward added.
"We are not asking her to investigate," the Crown Prince clarified. "But we believe she may be able to possibly suggest improvements or assist in systematizing the documents once cleared by you. This would be voluntary and completely under your purview."
Anthony said nothing for a moment. Then: "She's not trained for imperial audits."
"Perhaps not," the Grand Duke said, "but she does have a mind for truth, discernment, and innovation. You may recall she once told me—chaos is just a puzzle waiting to be solved."
A flicker of a smile crossed Anthony's lips.
He looked at the charred pages, then back at the royals. "I'll speak with her."
The Crown Prince nodded once. "We appreciate your candor, Lord Whitman. For the empire's future, we must root out corruption together."
"Welcome aboard, Whitman," Edward clapped his hand on Anthony's shoulder.
Anthony bowed again. "For the empire."
As the trio looked closer at the papers strewn on the table, Anthony felt the weight of shifting tides. Corruption was no longer just a threat to his company—it was a rot at the empire's heart. And somehow, Lady Whitman might be the key to untangling it all.
The golden light of late morning streamed through the arching windows of the council chamber where the private meeting's opening salvo had just concluded. Crown Prince Alaric lingered by the map-laden table with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze moving thoughtfully between the Grand Duke and the Earl of Whitman, both of whom stood silently in mutual understanding.
"The foundation has been laid," the Crown Prince said, his tone clipped but calm. "We have Anthony's cooperation. Now it is time to begin consolidating our response."
The Grand Duke inclined his head. "We should begin assembling and reviewing all documents we have gathered so far from the salvage, the palace reports, and my agents' findings in the southern ports. The documents Lady Whitman helped recover and organize may prove invaluable."
Anthony, still adjusting to the dual weight of vindication and pressure, spoke with resolve. "Lady Whitman has a method for sorting and simplifying large volumes of information. I can request her assistance on this."
"Do so," Alaric said. "If she can bring clarity to this mess faster than our bureaucrats, she may save us weeks of delay."
The Grand Duke tapped a finger against a rolled map. "I suggest a secure neutral location for this task. Somewhere she can work safely and efficiently. Perhaps a library wing within the Mage Tower?"
Anthony gave a slow nod. "I will speak with her today. She has already shown great aptitude for discerning patterns that others tend to overlook."
The Grand Duke turned, his tone taking a more tactical note. "And while she works on untangling the records, I will send word to our agents at Port Granth and Alvion's northern coast. If we are to take advantage of this momentum, we need a clear strike."
Alaric agreed, his eyes narrowing with thought. "We need a public win. Something undeniable. Capture one of our enemy's agents in the act. Bribery, document falsification, anything."
Anthony's jaw set. "If you permit, I can have my most trusted investigator embed in one of our flagged warehouses near Port Granth. The bribes and falsified records always seem to start there."
The Crown Prince smiled faintly, something rare. "Do it. I want names, I want faces. The nobles who whisper in the shadows must learn that the Empire has eyes."
The tension in the room began to dissipate, replaced by a simmering sense of direction.
"One last matter," said the Grand Duke, pausing. "Lady Whitman's toy business. If we bring Sutherland's official support to her invention enterprises, we not only improve morale, but demonstrate that Sutherland Trading is evolving. That it's no longer a corrupt beast, but a force for innovation."
Anthony hesitated for half a breath, then gave a small, meaningful smile. "Yes. And it will be true." But then, he turned serious once more. "However, I will not, under any circumstances force her to do anything that she does not want to."
"Agreed," said the Grand Duke. "However, knowing your wife's personality. I am one hundred percent certain that she would want to help."
"I know," that small smile appeared again in the Earl's lips.
Alaric gave a single approving nod. "Then let this be the first step of many. We move in silence now—but we will strike loud."
As the meeting ended and the men filed out of the chamber, the sense of alliance was no longer simply forged in title, but in shared purpose. The enemy had grown bold. Now, it was time for the empire to answer.
*****By blood, by will, by kindred fate*****
The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the countess's study, catching on the metallic glint of springs and copper gears scattered across Lady Whitman's desk. Sitting among them was a half-assembled prototype: a small mechanical fox with delicate paws and a swishing bronze tail, its gears exposed like a skeleton mid-dance.
On the other desk sat Jane, her trusty attendant, writing out letters of apologies to those who sent invitations to tea parties and balls for the Lady who was currently the talk of the town.
Lady Whitman adjusted her monocle—a ridiculous but necessary accessory for detailed work—and wound the tiny key on the fox's back.
It scampered forward with a whirring chirp, stopping neatly at the edge of the table before chirping again and sitting down with a mechanical purr.
A smile tugged at her lips. Children are going to love you, she thought. "You'll be called Rustle," she murmured to the little automaton, imagining the fox darting through forest floors in a child's imaginative world. It was amazing that the simple arcane sigil she carved on the toy's haunches actually worked. She must remember to thank Mage Henry for lending his mana on her sigil as well as teaching her the basics of Arcane Enchantment. Once mana has been imbued to the sigil or magic circle, the spells drawn on the sigil will be cast on it permanently, and even magicless people can use it repeatedly by chanting the appointed spell—the sigil will activate automatically by absorbing mana from its surroundings. Too bad she couldn't imbue mana on her sigil herself since she had no magical affinity.
She was placing the fox beside a similar half-finished owl when the butler knocked.
"My lady, His Grace the Grand Duke has arrived."
Lady Whitman blinked. "Oh! I wasn't expecting him until next week. He's early." She hurriedly wiped her hands, scratching a small itch on her face, unknowingly smudging grease on her cheek.
When the Grand Duke entered, she greeted him with casual cheer. "Edward, I have something to show you. I've been thinking about launching a collection of wind-up animals for the younger children—this one runs and sits!"
She picked up the fox and wound it, letting it skitter across the polished sideboard. It bumped into the Grand Duke's coat and sat again with an almost proud twitch of its tail.
He chuckled. "I assume this one's meant for the forest line?"
"Exactly," she said, pleased. "I've designed six: fox, owl, badger, squirrel, sparrow, and hedgehog. Simple enough to be affordable, charming enough for all classes."
"It's delightful," he said sincerely, "but I'm afraid I didn't come here for toys today, Lady Whitman."
Her smile faltered slightly. "Ah," she said, already sensing the shift. "Then... what matter brings Your Grace to my humble desk?"
Edward's face sobered. "Why don't we go downstairs and speak with your husband?"
"Oh, alright then."
And when she and the Grand Duke arrived at the Earl's study, she was quite surprised to see the people who were there.
The study was warm with sunlight by the time Lady Whitman was invited in, her skirts whispering softly as she stepped across the rug. The Grand Duke walked in first to stand near the fireplace. The Earl sat nearby, one hand lightly resting over a stack of neatly organized reports, while the Crown Prince—dressed with less formality than usual—paced slowly by the window, half-turned toward the door.
"Lady Whitman," the Crown Prince greeted with a slight bow of his head. "We hoped you might lend us your insight."
Lady Whitman blinked, eyes shifting briefly to her husband before offering the Crown Prince a small, graceful curtsey. "Of course, Your Highness. I will do my best, though I am only a humble tradeswoman."
The Earl's lips twitched, almost a smile. "A tradeswoman who started from scratch and created a budding business with clever ideas and discipline."
"Indeed," the Grand Duke added, gesturing to the folder he held. "What we're attempting here is untangling a web of documents across dozens of ports, accounts, and transactions. We have reason to believe some of these ledgers have been altered or manipulated, and we'd like your opinion—on how best to organize our findings. Or, if you'd approach it differently."
Lady Whitman carefully stepped forward, glancing over the ledgers. Her brows furrowed as she traced the ink trails with her gaze—some lines smudged, some curiously clean.
"Well, I… um, I really don't know how someone like me could be of help," she said hesitantly. "I mean, I'm sure the royal palace has experts that could help you, your highness." She started skimming through one of the folders. Mind already crunching.
"Our experts are baffled as well," chuckled the Crown Prince. "What we need is a fresh perspective."
Patiently, they allowed her a quiet moment to browse through the papers as she tried to recall her days of helping Mr. Sanders in his bookkeeping at the repair shop back on Earth coupled with what she recently learned from managing her toy store as well as from Steward Ferguson.
Altered or manipulated ledgers, she thought. They're trying to stop the bleeding from a thousand invisible cuts, she realized. So many hands dipping into imperial coffers, hiding behind falsified numbers and ghost cargo. She glanced at one of the ledgers laid open on the long table, its handwritten entries neat but entirely reliant on the honesty of the scribe.
"How can we make sure each item traded is truly recorded?" She murmured to herself. "That no one can simply "forget" a crate or change a number?"
Nobody answered her. Perhaps, the three men watching her carefully were instinctively aware that she was talking to herself, thinking out loud, as her mind whirred with possibilities.
Her mind drifted—once more—back to Earth. To a convenience store's soft beep as a box of cereal was scanned over a laser. Barcodes. QR codes. Scannable patterns that verified, tracked, and logged every sale in the computer real time. They were so efficient—so foolproof. The idea lodged like a splinter in her mind.
Of course, this world had no tills or computers, no laser scanners or centralized inventory systems. But the principle remained.
A sudden idea sparked to life. This world has magic.
"Hmm. If I may, sirs," she said thoughtfully, "I think the ledgers could be divided by date, port, and overseer—then cross-indexed against known shipping logs. And for future records, may I suggest… maybe a magical countermeasure?"
The Crown Prince raised a brow. "Go on."
Lady Whitman sat back, her voice soft but steady. "Maybe the Mage Tower can help create a magical stamp—arcane in nature. When used or stamped on a box or cargo, the enchanted seal automatically creates an entry in a separate, master ledger kept in a secure vault perhaps. It would be tamper-resistant since forging it will not create any entry on the master ledger, and it could be cross-referenced without relying on potentially corrupt scribes or bribed inspectors."
The Grand Duke's expression grew sharp with interest. "A magical inventory tether. Intriguing."
"It would take effort to create," Lady Whitman admitted, her hands folding before her. "But, based on my observations with Mage Henry, if you designed it with care, and supported by the Mage Tower or your own arcane department, it could act as both a security measure and a verification system."
The Earl looked at her, pride flickering through his gaze—warm, anchored, admiring. "We'll consider this seriously. You've just given us a direction we hadn't thought of."
The Crown Prince's lips curved faintly. "A banquet in your honor is not enough to thank you for this, my lady."
Lady Whitman flushed slightly, then offered a modest smile. "I'm only doing what I can, Your Highness."
"And that," said the Grand Duke, "is precisely what makes it remarkable."
The quiet agreement among the three men, and the way the Earl's eyes lingered on her—not just grateful but moved—marked a new beginning in her place among them. Not as an outsider, but a valued contributor.
She curtsied again, then quietly excused herself. And as the door closed behind her, the air in the study held a subtle shift—of progress, and a stronger alliance.
That night, as Jason slept on her lap after reading their nightly bedtime stories, Anthony sat beside her on the settee.
"Are you sure it is alright for you to join this investigation," he asked her seriously. He took her hand that was rhythmically patting Jason's sleeping back and held it gently. It was becoming a habit with him.
"Well," she considered it carefully. "It seems I was only being asked for ideas that could help in your investigation. I don't see any harm in it."
"Hah," Anthony sighed. "Alright then, if you say so." But why was there a part of him that was prickling at the thought of involving his wife in this?
The next day, Lady Whitman's study was unusually lively that morning. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows and the scent of ink, parchment, and fresh fruit lingered in the air. Across the table from her sat Mage Henry, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he watched her sketch what could only be described as a tiny, beetle-shaped wind-up toy that can be disassembled and reassembled.
"You know," Henry said, lifting his teacup, "I did not expect to be consulted about chickens that waddle when wound."
"They're not chickens," Lady Whitman said firmly, pushing the sketch toward him. "They're ducks. Jason loves ducks. And besides, these aren't just for play. I want to use the wind-up motion to introduce basic mechanical concepts to children. They could even use this to race each other."
Henry quirked an eyebrow, then grinned. "You never cease to surprise me. But I assume this isn't why you summoned me."
She chuckled, setting the duck sketch aside and pulling out another set of blueprints. These were far more intricate—symbols of containment magic, mirrored etching runes, and conduit lines drawn with precision. She really had learned a lot, not only from books, but most especially from Mage Henry. Too bad, really, that she had no magical affinity to be able to imbue her sketched sigils into life.
Her face turned serious.
"This is why I asked you here," she said, tapping the center of the parchment. "This will be the arcane blueprint for the Imperial Trade Sigil that I suggested to his highness. I was thinking, what if every cleared cargo at a port received a magical stamp—one that not only marked the goods but automatically created a duplicate entry into a separate master ledger stored somewhere secure? No more bribing port inspectors to erase or falsify records."
Henry leaned forward, expression sharpening. "Tamper-proof. We could also ensure that the sigil could only be applied by authorized inspectors, keyed to their mana signature. Clever. Where would the duplicate entries go?"
"To the Earl's central archive. Or maybe to the Royal Trade Bureau," she replied. "Ideally both. The sigil's activation would transmit the entry in real time."
Henry's brows lifted. "You've clearly thought this through."
"I had a lot of time to think while organizing toy ledgers and trade ledgers at once," she muttered with a half-smile. "By the way, thank you for the books you lent me a few weeks ago."
They worked together for hours, adjusting lines of mana flow, enhancing the protective spells to prevent forging, and inscribing a date and time-stamp charm into the final design. By afternoon, Henry sat back with a satisfied hum.
"It's ready," he said. "I can begin enchanting the first batch of stamps tonight."
Within weeks of completion, the first Imperial Trade Sigils were deployed at three of the nearest ports in the empire for testing. The sigils, shaped like small metallic rods with a carved base, emitted a soft blue glow and a brief, melodic chime when pressed to the crates. As soon as the sigil marked a cargo, a matching entry—including origin, merchant company ownership, quantity, time, and date—was recorded in the sealed Royal Ledgers enchanted by Henry himself.
The results were immediate.
Customs officials who once pocketed coin for looking the other way found their old methods impossible. Any discrepancy between marked goods and central ledgers raised a magical alarm spell. Two weeks into implementation, two port officials were caught in the act—one attempting to bypass the sigil with counterfeit documents, the other caught accepting bribes for false declarations. Both were arrested on the spot.
Newspapers seized upon the moment:
-----000-----
"Lady Whitman Strikes Again: The Imperial Trade Sigil Revolutionizes Port Security"
In a stunning collaboration between the Mage Tower and the now-legendary Countess of Whitman, their new invention, the Imperial Trade Sigil has immediately helped turned the tide in the fight against port corruption. Where once records vanished, they now write themselves. Two port officials, who made light of Lady Whitman's and the Mage Tower's abilities, were immediately arrested even during this new invention's testing phase.
The public reception was overwhelmingly positive. Merchants began to trust the system again. Whispers in noble salons no longer doubted the countess's merit—they debated whether she should be involved in other industries too.
The empire watches closely to see what the Countess will innovate next.
-----000-----
And in her study, Lady Whitman simply smiled when Jason ran up to her, waving a tiny duck that waddled when wound.
"Mother, you're so amazing! Even the Grand Duke said so at dinner!"
She ruffled his hair and returned to her sketchpad.
"Well," she said, "let's see what we can do next."
*****Two lives entwined, two paths equate*****
Rain whispered against the mullioned windows of the Whitman study, faintly blurring the view of the estate's gardens in bloom. A hearth fire crackled in the corner, casting warm amber light over the dark wood shelves and the scattered reports on the Earl's desk. The Whitmans just finished their dinner and, as was their new custom, were lounging together in the Earl's drawing room prior to bedtime.
Anthony stood before the hearth, a letter from the Crown Prince in his hand, its wax seal already broken, the parchment opened and reread at least twice.
Jason sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a wooden prototype of a wind-up rabbit, attaching its ears wobbly with charm. Lady Whitman stood by the window, her posture relaxed as she sipped a mild tea. The air smelled faintly of lemon and smoke.
"A resounding success," Anthony finally said, eyes still on the parchment. "The Imperial Trade Sigil is now being used in more ports. Three more ports in the western region. They've already reported a 28% drop in 'untraceable cargo.'" He glanced at her. "Another port official was caught trying to forge the stamp."
Lady Whitman's brows lifted, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup. "So soon?"
He crossed to her, his tone quieter now, reverent. "Your idea. Your design. It's working. Even the Prince writes that the ministry is 'deeply impressed.'" A pause. "He included you in his commendation."
Jason leapt up, wind-up rabbit in hand. "Mama, you're in the royal letter?" He danced around them with excitement. "Does that mean you'll get another medal or something?"
Lady Whitman laughed softly, touched and bashful. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, darling." She quipped, kissing the boy's forehead.
But Anthony's gaze held hers. "It means more than that. What you've done—it's changed things. This family. The ports. Perhaps even the entire empire."
She met his gaze, a blush rising. For once, there was no tension between them, only shared pride and a deepening warmth. His fingers grazed hers briefly as he took her empty teacup. He lingered just a second too long before placing it on the tray.
Meanwhile, there were some people who were not impressed.
The sea pounded against the cliffside, wind screaming through the loose boards of the rotting warehouse. A hidden chamber lay behind a false wall, its stone floor lit by the flickering flame of old-fashioned lanterns.
The Fallen Prince stood at the head of a warped table, soaked cloak dripping as he listened to a tense report from one of his men. Maps were sprawled out beside crates of contraband—unmarked goods meant for silent profit.
"Intercepted in Calburn and Westmoor," the informant said, voice shaking. "This new sigil system—officials were caught on before the bribes could be delivered. They say it's impossible to move goods now without that damned mark showing up in the city ledgers."
A furious silence followed.
The prince's hands curled into fists. "Lady Whitman."
The name fell like a blade.
His second-in-command, a wiry man with burn scars along one cheek, grimaced. "She's working with the Crown. Her inventions are disrupting everything—your contacts are panicking. And now they say the Whitman wench got backing from the nobles and the press."
The prince slammed a silver chalice to the floor. "Then we bleed them faster. Find out how this magic sigil works. Steal it, replicate it, sabotage it. If she's their star, we dim her light. Permanently, if we must."
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the room. A shadow moved in the rafters. Orders were whispered. Names listed. Smiles turned sharp with venom.
Outside, the storm wailed louder, as though echoing a brewing reckoning.