Summer brought plenty, but plenty always rotted. The fields outside Drosmere had yielded a great harvest, and carts of grain crowded the city markets. Prices dropped so low that farmers cursed and merchants dumped sacks into the river rather than pay for storage.
Everyone saw waste.
Aiden saw fortune.
He spent days moving quietly through the markets, sending his boys to count sacks, to track which warehouses were full, which merchants were desperate. The pendant at his chest burned warm, whispering patterns into his thoughts—supply and demand, time and hunger, patience as weapon.
When the numbers were clear, Aiden struck.
He bought what others discarded. Sack after sack of grain, moldy at the edges but still good, purchased for copper so small it was almost theft. He bribed a stablehand to let him store the grain in abandoned stalls, then in cellars the boys cleared of rats.
His men grumbled. "Why waste coin on rot? No one wants it."
Aiden only smiled. "No one wants it now."
And then he waited.
Weeks passed. The harvest wagons stopped. Prices steadied, then began to climb. Slowly at first, then sharply as the next caravan was delayed by storms. Bread grew scarce. The same merchants who had laughed at him now scoured the markets for stock.
That was when Aiden sold.
Not all at once, but in measured portions, trickling grain into the market so that the price rose higher each day. Farmers cursed the shortage, merchants cursed the weather, but none could ignore the boy who suddenly seemed to have endless sacks when all others were empty.
The profit was staggering.
For the first time, Aiden's purse held gold. Real gold, heavy and warm in his hands. Enough to buy not just food and knives, but influence. Enough to make men listen.
But with gold came eyes.
A rotund spice trader squinted at him across the market, lips thin with suspicion. A guild clerk scribbled notes whenever Aiden sold. Servants whispered that a new dealer had appeared in the slums, one too clever to be dismissed as luck.
Aiden felt the net tightening.
That night, beneath the broken arch, he laid the gold out in rows, staring at it by candlelight. His boys watched with wide eyes, but Aiden was not smiling.
"This city knows me now," he murmured. "Not my name. Not my face. But they feel me." He touched the pendant. "And soon, they will have no choice but to reckon with me."
The ghost had become a merchant.
And merchants were more dangerous than gangs.