The air at Port Arandale crackled with tension and sea-salt. It was early morning, but the wharf was already alive—crates being hoisted, sailors shouting directions, clerks scribbling notes, and customs officers pacing with the nervous energy of men expecting a storm to arrive. A sleek black carriage pulled up near the customs house, bearing the imperial seal.
Grand Duke Edward Chambers stepped out first, a lopsided grin playing on his face as he scanned the bustling port. Then he turned back to the carriage to offer his hand and help the next occupant climb out after him. With a hand holding the grand duke's, Lady Bettina Whitman stepped out, cloaked in navy velvet, her expression composed but alert. Mage Henry followed behind them, levitating several runic crates that softly glowed with restrained magic. The six knights who followed their carriage on horseback also dismounted.
A small crowd of merchants, port officials, and guards had gathered, curious about the so-called "Transparent Trade Revelation" being tested.
A senior port inspector, Lyndel, bowed. "My lady, Your Grace, Mage Henry. We've prepared the southern checkpoint for your demonstration."
Bettina nodded. "Excellent. Let's begin."
They moved to a freshly cordoned customs station where Henry, with the help of the knights, began setting up two eight-foot stone pillars etched with silver runes. Between them, a flat pedestal of reinforced oak bore an inset circle lined with embedded crystal—meant to hold the trade sigil parchment for scanning.
"Each merchant will present their sigil," Bettina explained to a gathering crowd, "which reflects the contents of their shipment. The enchantment compares it to the official shipping manifest and automatically registers taxes owed. Any inconsistency triggers a visual warning and alerts the main ledger at the capital."
"Sounds slow," muttered a stout man in a weathered brown cloak. He stepped forward, arms crossed. "I'm Master Garven. Been trading along this coast for twenty-five years. I've seen fads come and go. Nobles love shiny magic. We, however, work with crates and coin."
Grand Duke Edward chuckled. "Then you won't mind helping us prove its worth, Master Garven. Let's see how your shipment fares."
Garven grunted and waved to his workers. Two crates of Dymerian spice and silk bolts were brought forward. The merchant placed his sigil parchment on the pedestal. The crystal glowed a soft blue. The left pillar hummed. On the side ledger, golden script appeared:
-----000-----
Shipment: Cloth & Spice – Certified
Declared Value: 22,000 silvers
Taxes Owed: 3,300 silvers
Customs Status: CLEAR
-----000-----
Mage Henry gestured to the ledger. "The system has automatically recorded the shipment, calculated taxes based on weight and item class, and generated a receipt."
Garven squinted. "No bribes? No delays?"
"Just trade," Bettina said.
He snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Impressive."
Gasps echoed. The scribe standing nearby whispered, "It worked perfectly."
"And quickly too!" Added one of the inspectors.
Master Garven stared. "It got the numbers right?" He turned to Bettina. "How?"
"Your sigil holds a magical imprint of your manifest. Our runes cross-verify with the empire's registry," Henry explained. "If the two match, you pass. If not..."
"And if someone tries to cheat?" Garven asked.
Bettina's smile was cool. "Let's find out."
One by one, seafaring merchants went over to the pillars, their cargos carried by their workers, placing their sigil parchments on the pedestal. Each one received a "Clear" customs status and were allowed to move on. The process was indeed quicker than their old, manual ways, and the cleared merchants looked satisfied that they were able to move on to the next phase of their business plans for the day. That is, until another one stepped forward and did not receive the "Clear" customs status.
Clerk Fenno approached, sweat beading on his brow. He placed his sigil parchment and waved for a crate labeled "Machinery parts" to be carried over to him. As the parchment hit the pedestal, the scanner blinked red. A shrill hum cut through the air and red characters appeared high up in between the pillars.
------000-----
ALERT: CONTENTS INCONSISTENT WITH DECLARATION
-----000------
"Warning," the pedestal spoke in a clear, magical voice. "Declared items inconsistent with sigil metadata. Flagged for further inspection."
Mage Henry gestured, and the crate burst open—inside were contraband magical crystals and artifacts wrapped in straw and hidden underneath the declared machinery.
Inspector Lyndel gasped. "Fenno, what is this?"
Fenno stammered, backing away. "I—I didn't know—it must be a mistake—"
Guards seized him. Bettina folded her arms. "Thank you, Master Fenno. You've helped us prove the system's deterrent power."
The scribe recorded the arrest as Clerk Fenno and his crates were seized by port guards. Whispers stirred the merchant crowd.
Master Garven stepped forward, voice quieter now. "I admit... I didn't expect this. You've caught a rat in your first hour. I suppose this system's worth more than fancy lights."
"Thank you, Master Garven," Bettina replied. "We built it for merchants like you—honest ones who deserve fair treatment."
Receiving gratitude and a compliment from such a beautiful lady, Master Garven was unable to stop himself from blushing.
A messenger arrived on horseback, bearing the imperial seal. He unfurled a scroll and read: "By order of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Alaric Benicio de Boleus, the Transparent Trade Revelation system is to be expanded to four additional ports by season's end."
Cheers broke out among the officials, guards, and dock-workers alike. Even the skeptical merchants nodded with approval.
Grand Duke Edward leaned toward Bettina and whispered with a grin, "We may have just made imperial history today."
Bettina let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "And we're only getting started."
Bettina's last words to Edward that day proved to be true as, several weeks after their trial phase, the entire empire became abuzz with this latest innovative procedure that was spearheaded by Crown Prince Alaric and his team. Even the emperor himself was heard voicing his approval and pride on his son's accomplishments during a council meeting. Most notably among them, though, was the Countess of former notoriety and ill-repute, now becoming the toast of high society, Lady Bettina Anne Whitman. Not only being the talk of the town (or empire, for that matter), each and every newspaper and magazine in publication have at least one or two articles almost daily, specifically featuring each key player of this reform.
-----000-----
THE EMPIRE GAZETTE
FRONT PAGE HEADLINE
"A New Era of Honesty: Trade Transparency Sparks Economic Rebirth"
Port Arandale Pilot Declared Triumphant – Trade Sigil and Ledger Protocol Now Mandatory Empire-wide
In an unprecedented collaboration between nobility and the Mage Tower, Lady Bettina Anne Whitman and Grand Duke Edward Matthew Chambers have successfully rolled out the Transparent Trade Revelation system across all major imperial ports.
The initiative, which began as a pilot test in Port Arandale, uses enchanted sigils and ledger-binding magic to prevent false declarations, smuggling, money laundering and tax evasion. Reports from the Treasury indicate a 31% increase in declared merchant revenue within the first month of implementation.
"We've seen the price of luxury imports stabilize and the volume of legitimate exports increase," stated Minister Gavir from the Imperial Trade Board. "The empire's merchants finally feel seen and protected."
Lady Whitman was unavailable for a full interview but offered a brief comment:
"The system only works because the people make it work. We're just giving them the tools to trade freely and fairly."
The official spokesperson from the Mage Tower, when asked about the enchantment framework, simply replied:
"It's not a perfect solution — but it's honest. And that's a good start."
It seems that these innovations in our Trade and Industry have also sparked a world-wide inspiration to crack down on import-export procedures as yours truly have heard directly from our Lord Chamberlain that dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms have sent official requests to visit the empire and witness the success of our Transparent Trade Revelation system firsthand.
Lady Whitman has, once again, proven to the ton how she is more than just a diamond in the first water.
-----000-----
-----000-----
THE NOBLE HERALD
OPINION & PRAISE COLUMN
"A Courageous Step Forward: The Crown Prince and Grand Duke Usher in a New Era"
While the magical systems were designed by some of the brightest minds in our very own Mage Tower and certain noble estates, let us not forget the bold vision of His Highness, Crown Prince Alaric Benicio de Boleus, and His Grace, Grand Duke Edward Matthew Chambers.
For too long, the empire's trade routes were compromised by bribes, backdoor deals, and hidden tariffs. Thanks to decisive reforms and unwavering oversight, the noble trade houses and guilds now work in tandem with honest merchants instead of exploiting them.
From the tailor in Floran to the pearl divers of the Southern Isles, families are reporting fairer market prices and higher wages.
With the Transparent Trade Revelation system in full force, many nobles are now reconsidering how commerce can be both profitable and ethical.
We applaud our leadership — not for their power, but for using it wisely.
-----000-----
In the bustling streets of Port Vestal, a merchant proudly stamps a glowing sigil onto a crate of imported silk, knowing it will not be tampered with. Nearby, a dockmaster whistles cheerfully as ledger entries write themselves in neat magical ink, matching the manifest exactly.
In the capital's central marketplace, a baker purchases imported cinnamon at a fair price, no longer gouged by false tariffs. In return, she smiles as she sells her pastries to families who can now afford weekend treats again.
A young boy waves a pamphlet with Lady Whitman's sketch on it, and calls her a "real lady hero." His father, a former black-market trader, now runs a registered goods stall, eyes no longer darting nervously at the sight of guards.
The Grand Duke's envoys return from a border town, reporting minimal fraud, rising revenues — and most tellingly — grateful citizens.
But while sunlight spread across much of the empire…
The room was underground. The flickering oil lamps hanging from blackened iron sconces cast jagged shadows across the stone chamber walls. Thick velvet maps and coded ledgers lay scattered on the war table, all of them marked, annotated — and rendered irrelevant.
"What do you mean the Senubia shipments were traced?" a wiry, red-eyed man snarled, slamming his fist on the table. "We rebribed that port chief just three months ago!"
"Bribed, yes. But not protected," spat another — a woman with cropped gray hair and an assassin's calm. "He was captured last night. They're interrogating him at Fort Bray."
A third man, younger but bitter-eyed, raked his hand through his hair. "All of our rerouted funds — confiscated. The smuggled opals? Seized. The ledgers? Cleaned. I warned you; the sigil system was more than just ink and flair."
"And what?" snapped the red-eyed man. "You want to run to the foreign lords? Ask for their help again? They won't risk exposure now — not when trade is finally moving and their own people are profiting. People from higher places, including royalties outside the empire, are having a close watch!"
A heavy silence fell.
At the far end of the chamber, a figure finally moved.
Seated in a deep-backed chair carved with symbols of a long-defeated royal crest, the Fallen Prince uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.
"We underestimated her," he said softly.
The others stilled.
"We thought she was just another noble wife — a pretty mouthpiece. But she turned the port cities against us with paper and ink."
His voice did not rise, but the silence that followed was colder than steel.
"The traitors we bought are either in chains or confessing. The safe routes are collapsed. The Tower has strengthened their alliance with the Crown. We are running out of time."
A silence. Then he spoke again, quieter still:
"I think it's time… we eliminate the source of our problems."
No one asked whom he meant.
They already knew.
*****Bound by grief, by justice dire*****
The morning sun slanted gently through the tall arched windows of Whitman Manor, casting golden streaks across polished floors and warming the hearth-brightened drawing room. It may have already been winter, however, with the help of the Mage Tower, an invisible barrier kept the snowfalls away just outside the capital, while their weather regulator kept the temperatures within the capital as if it was still autumn.
Meanwhile, within the Whitmans' estate, which was previously always prim and dignified, it now buzzed with a strange undercurrent: Laughter. Smiles. Whispered chuckles behind gloved hands.
Lady Whitman had returned from the capital late the previous evening, greeted by her husband's overly dramatic groan at the door and an embrace so tight, she had nearly dropped her satchel of documents. Lord Anthony, thankfully, had recovered from his injuries well enough that he could now stand and walk up and down the stairs.
Now, with breakfast long cleared and the house humming with spring energy, Anthony James Whitman, Earl of Whitman, was making his grand reentrance into estate life — leaning rather heavily on a cane in one hand and leaning even more heavily on Bettina's arm.
"Betty," he drawled, the tip of his cane clicking against the marble tiles of the hallway. "Darling. Sweetest apple of my eye. Would you be so kind as to open the east terrace door for me? My arms feel a bit… weary this morning."
Bettina tilted her head at him, amusement clear in her eyes. "Weary? Is that before or after you carried Jason's hound away from the pond like a war hero?"
Jason, walking a few steps behind them with a basket of freshly cut herbs, snorted. "He ran after the dog shouting like a madman and tripped over his own cane. The stableman had to help both of them up."
"Lies. Vicious slander," Anthony muttered, but there was no fire to his words. "That dog is a menace."
"You're a menace," Bettina said sweetly, reaching forward to open the terrace doors. "But a handsome one."
"Ah, flattery. Finally, you remember I'm a convalescent."
Jason rolled his eyes but couldn't help grinning. "You haven't been a convalescent in days. You just like ordering Mother around."
"I am convalescent! I—" Anthony began, a little too quickly.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Not anymore, Dr. Stein said."
That brought a rare flush to the Earl's face, and Bettina, delighted, giggled openly. From the corner of the hallway, two maids peeked behind a potted fern, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
"Well, our lord has taken care of us so much," Bettina whispered under her breath. "He does deserve to be spoiled once or twice in his lifetime."
"Good," Anthony said without shame. "Let the record show I am almost completely spoiled."
As they stepped onto the east terrace, the warm breeze caught the trailing edge of Bettina's skirt. Anthony, ever the dramatist, pulled her closer and wrapped an arm around her waist.
Jason coughed. "You do know people can see this from the garden, right?"
Anthony didn't blink. "They've already seen worse. Last week she kissed me in front of the butler."
Bettina gasped. "That was your fault. You said you had a headache and couldn't sleep—"
"I did! But the cure was extremely effective."
From the shrubbery, the head gardener discreetly turned away, biting his knuckle to keep from laughing. In the kitchens, a footman darted to the bell-ringing panel and yanked the cord marked greenhouse, sending a signal down to the parlor. Three more staff immediately began sprinting across the manor to catch whatever scandalous domestic comedy was unfolding.
Later, in the sunny parlor, Bettina and Anthony sat together on a velvet-cushioned settee, sipping tea while Jason flipped through a gardening almanac nearby.
One of the maids, young and terribly curious, ventured in to bring a tray of sweet buns.
"Leave it on the table, thank you," Bettina said politely.
Anthony reached for the tray.
"Ah—careful, my hand—" he said as he winced dramatically, prompting Bettina to immediately take the tongs and serve him herself.
The maid stared wide-eyed at this rare, domesticated version of her lord.
Jason, from behind his book, muttered, "Bet he claims his jaw hurts next so he can be spoon-fed."
"I heard that!" Anthony called.
"And I meant it," Jason replied dryly.
The maid was gone in a flash—presumably to relay every juicy detail to the rest of the staff.
When the three of them were finally alone again, Anthony leaned back with a satisfied sigh and looked up at Bettina with all the affection in the world.
"You know," he murmured, brushing a loose curl from her cheek, "I was never supposed to be the sort of man who lives for laughter and tea in the mornings. It wasn't part of my training growing up."
Bettina rested her forehead gently against his. "That's because you never had anyone to share them with."
Jason, now used to the romantic interludes, let them be and happily munched on his sweet bun.
"By the way," Anthony murmured, "before our planned visit to the family seat, I will be inviting our company's directors for our annual meeting here. They'll be coming in a few days."
"Has your investigations been completed then?" Bettina asked, turning serious.
"Yes, we have all the evidence we need."
And indeed, a couple of days later…
The grand meeting hall of Whitman Manor had not been used in months—not for formal business. But today, the long oak table was polished to a gleam, every chair filled by high-ranking directors of the Sutherland Trading Company. The air held the tension of uncertain purpose, tinged faintly with unease. The hearth fire crackled behind a wrought-iron screen, providing comfort only in appearance.
The heavy double doors creaked open.
Earl Anthony Whitman entered slowly, a polished cane in one hand, his shoulders squared beneath a deep charcoal coat. His steps were steady, dignified. Though healing still, he wore authority like armor—calm, resolute, watchful.
Behind him came Director Hamel, one of the most respected senior members of the board; Lady Margella, poised and graceful; and Captain Sommers, quietly trailing beside her, eyes bright with alertness.
Anthony moved to the head of the table and stood rather than sat.
"Thank you all for coming on short notice," he began, his voice steady and sure. "This company has stood as a pillar of imperial commerce for generations. But in recent months, it has suffered. Integrity has eroded. Trust has been questioned. We have endured external threats—and now, we must face the internal ones."
A ripple of tension traveled through the room. A few of the directors exchanged glances—Lady Margella, notably, kept her gaze fixed coldly forward.
"I did not call you here for deliberation," Anthony continued, "but for revelation."
At his signal, Captain James Sommers, Head of Security & Privateer Fleet, stepped forward, placing a thick, leather-bound dossier on the table. Then another. And another—until five sets of compiled reports lay visible before the board.
"Over the last three months," Captain Sommers said gravely, "a select group of loyal directors, analysts, and legal advisors were tasked by the Earl with conducting an internal investigation. Their goal was to determine the cause of discrepancies in shipping revenue, mismanaged accounts, and inexplicable losses in several key trade routes."
He opened the first file, revealing marked ledgers and witness transcripts.
"We found it."
Gasps and low murmurs followed as the directors leaned in. The evidence was damning: forged invoices, shell companies, secret kickbacks from unauthorized ports. Names were named. Transactions traced. Witnesses had been documented—and two had even testified before a notary mage.
Edmund Blakely, Director of Warehousing & Logistics, a long-serving board member, paled visibly when his name was listed in one of the ledgers.
"This is preposterous," he barked. "These papers could be falsified!"
But Sommers merely flipped to the next page, revealing a signed confession from a port chief already imprisoned.
Richard Pembroke, Chief Trade Director, whose dealings in the southern vineyards had raised eyebrows for years, stood up and shouted, "This is an ambush!"
"It is justice," Anthony said calmly, and finally sat down.
In the silence that followed, the doors to the side room swung open.
Imperial guards entered—six of them, cloaked in navy and gold, bearing the sigil of the Crown Prince. The room erupted in gasps and half-risen protests as the guards approached the guilty parties.
Bernard Godfrey, Chief Financial Officer, attempted to stand and argue, but was firmly restrained. Director Blakely pushed back from his chair, only to find a blade unsheathed at his back. Lady Margella rose, her lips tight.
"Lord Whitman," she said quietly, "you cannot allow imperial soldiers to arrest fellow directors on your estate."
"I didn't allow it," Anthony replied without looking at her. "I requested it."
"By order of His Highness the Crown Prince, you are hereby detained for corruption, fraud against the empire, collusion with criminal elements, and obstruction of lawful trade reform. You will be transported to the imperial dungeon for further inquiry."
Some of the directors wept, some cursed, but none resisted now. They knew it was over.
As they were escorted out of the manor one by one, more worried about themselves rather than the victims of their crimes, none noted that Lady Whitman and her stepson, Jason had just stepped down the landing of the manor's grand staircase.
None except the final group who paused near the grand staircase to pointedly look at the lady of the manor. Lady Whitman and Jason stood side by side on the landing, observing. Jason's mouth parted in awe, and Lady Whitman remained calm, holding the little boy carefully beside her, watching as the guards began binding wrists and reading formal charges under imperial decree.
One of the captured directors—a sharp-jawed man with silver hair and hawkish eyes—turned his head just enough to meet Bettina's gaze.
He smiled.
"Your pretty reforms won't protect you forever," he said, voice like ice against glass. "The ones you disrupted will not forget."
Then he looked down at Jason and smirked.
"Let's see how long you can keep those close to you...untouched."
Jason flinched slightly, moving closer to Bettina.
The guards yanked the man forward before he could say another word, dragging him into the carriage waiting beyond the gates.
Lady Whitman exhaled slowly, hand instinctively brushing Jason's shoulder.
"Ignore him," she said gently.
But her eyes stayed on the gates long after the carriage vanished.
-----***-----
Author's Note: I hope you're all enjoying Mary Jane's story as much as I'm enjoying writing about her! I don't earn money by posting this novel here, so if you'd like to support me, please buy me coffee for only a dollar at my Kofi page below. I have posted some images of Lady Bettina and other characters there so please feel free to check them out too!:
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