[About 08:05 PM on Day 65]
You don't answer with words. A verbal explanation is the tool of a merchant, and you are here to demonstrate a fundamental shift in reality.
With a slow, deliberate motion, you reach into the inner pocket of your doublet and produce two items. The first is the Flow-Quill, its dark wood and crystalline nib seeming to absorb the light of the enchanted lantern. The second is a simple, blank roll of parchment. You place both on the gleaming surface of the rosewood table, a stark, functional intrusion into their world of polished perfection.
The two old men on either side of the woman exchange a faintly dismissive glance. The woman herself merely raises a single, elegant eyebrow, her expression one of mild, unimpressed curiosity. They believe you are about to show them a party trick.
You unroll the parchment. You pick up the quill.
And your hand begins to move.
There is no sound but the faintest whisper of the crystal nib gliding across the parchment. A flawless, glowing line of azure runes unfurls in its wake, the ink flowing in a perfect, unbroken stream. Your hand moves with a speed and precision that is simply not humanly possible under the old rules. There is no dip, no pause, no break in concentration. The complex matrix of a Lesser Restoration spell, a formula that should take a skilled scribe ten to fifteen minutes of painstaking work, takes form in less than thirty seconds.
The air in the room changes.
One of the old men, who had been leaning back in his chair, slowly sits bolt upright. The other leans forward, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with disbelief. The woman's mask of cool composure shatters. Her silver eyes are fixed on your hand, all pretense of control gone, replaced by the raw, naked shock of a high priestess witnessing an impossible miracle.
You finish with a final, elegant flourish. The light from the runes flares for a moment before settling into a steady, potent hum.
You set the Flow-Quill down beside the newly created scroll. With the back of your fingers, you slide the humming, perfectly inscribed parchment across the polished table. It stops directly in front of the woman.
The silence in the room is absolute, heavier than any amount of gold. They stare, first at the scroll, then at the pen in your hand, and finally, at you. The power has shifted. They are no longer the ones asking the questions.
[About 08:06 PM on Day 65]
You let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, allowing the full weight of your demonstration to settle. The three rulers of coin stare at the impossible evidence before them, their world of predictable margins and calculated risks shattered. Then, you speak, your voice cutting through the stillness with the clean, sharp edge of a diamond blade.
"What I have in my hands is not the ability to craft scrolls simply... faster. It is the entire market share of scroll production of The Mageocracy, and I'm looking for investors that don't just pay in coin."
The two men flinch. The words are a declaration of war—not with swords, but with economics, a language they understand intimately. It is an act of profound, almost suicidal audacity.
The woman in the center, however, does not flinch. The shock in her silver eyes recedes like a tide, pulled back to reveal a mind of terrifyingly cold and swift calculation. She looks from the pen, to the scroll, to you. She sees the disruption, the chaos, and the monumental, unprecedented profit that lies on the other side. She is no longer looking at an inventor. She is looking at a weapon of financial mass destruction.
She slowly, deliberately, folds her hands on the table before her, her composure an icy fortress rebuilt in seconds.
"The entire market share," she repeats, her voice a soft, dangerous murmur. She understands your meaning perfectly. You are not selling a patent. You are offering them the chance to dethrone a nation. "You propose a hostile takeover of a foreign monopoly, funded by our capital, with yourself as a... principal partner."
Her silver eyes narrow, pinning you in place. The initial test is over. The true negotiation has just begun.
"A bold proposition," she continues, her tone cool and precise. "But an invention is not a business. And a business is not an empire. You have shown us a miraculous tool. Now, show us you have the vision to wield it."
She leans forward slightly, the enchanted light glinting in her eyes. The power she wields is no longer passive; it is an active, probing force.
"The Guild does not invest in tools. We invest in returns. What, precisely, is your business plan? And what is your price for letting us be a part of it?"
[About 08:07 PM on Day 65]
You lean forward, your hands flat on the table, claiming the space as your own. The atmosphere in the room is no longer a negotiation; it is a lecture, and you are the master of the subject.
"My business plan is not to sell scrolls," you state, your voice cutting through the silence. "That is merely the first step. The plan is a phased takeover of an entire sector of the whole economy. I call it the Cascade."
You hold up one finger. "Phase One: Market Disruption. This is what you have just witnessed. We target a single, high-margin, low-supply product—in this case, Lesser Restoration scrolls. We use the Flow-Quill's impossible efficiency to sell at a loss, creating a supply shock. This proves the technology's viability and creates panic among the Mageocracy's investors, forcing them to the table. This phase is complete."
You hold up a second finger. "Phase Two: Scaled Production. We establish a formal production house here in Orléans. Ten scribes equipped with Flow-Quills will outproduce a hundred of the Mageocracy's master artisans. We will dominate the healing scroll market within three months. From there, we diversify into other complex, high-margin scrolls: Wards of Shielding, Scrolls of Tongues, Protection from Elements. We make quality and quantity our weapons, systematically dismantling their most profitable ventures."
A third finger joins the others. "Phase Three: Market Domination. Once we control the high-end market, we attack the foundation. We begin mass-producing commodity scrolls—Fireball, Light, Minor Warding. The bread and butter of every army and adventuring party. Our production cost will be so low we can sell them for half the current market rate and still turn a staggering profit. We will not just compete with the Mageocracy; we will bankrupt them. We will become the sole supplier of Formulaic magic scrolls to the continent."
The eyes of the three Guild leaders are locked on you, their minds racing to calculate the astronomical figures you are laying before them.
You slowly lower your hand and lean back in your chair, the lecture finished. Now comes the proposal.
"As you can see," you say with a cool, dismissive wave, "I don't need your coin. The success of this venture is a mathematical certainty. The Flow-Quill guarantees it."
You pause, letting the finality of that statement sink in.
"What I need is what coin cannot buy. I need the Guild's network to secure an unbreakable supply chain of parchment and alchemical inks. I need the Guild's political protection from the assassins and saboteurs the Silver Marches will inevitably send when they realize their nation is on the brink of economic collapse. I need the Guild's name to give this venture legitimacy."
You look the woman in the center dead in the eye, delivering your final, audacious demand.
"I am proposing a joint venture. We will form a new entity, under the Guild's protection. In exchange for granting you exclusive financial partnership in this... revolution... you will grant me a charter. This charter will stipulate that as our joint venture reaches certain, pre-agreed profit milestones, I will be granted the option to purchase shares in the Guild of Coin itself. The price points will be set tonight."
You give them a cold, predatory smile.
"I'm not asking for a handout. I'm offering you the chance to own the future. And I will use the fortune I make for you to buy my way into your ranks."
The room is utterly silent. The two men look at the woman, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror. They are financiers, used to calculating risk. You have just presented them with a plan that has almost zero risk and an infinite return, and the only price is a share of their own power.
The woman, the Matriarch of the Guild, slowly leans back in her chair. A long, agonizing minute passes as she simply stares at you, her silver eyes dissecting your every word, every intention. Then, for the first time, a slow, genuine smile spreads across her face. It is the most dangerous expression you have seen yet.
"Most men come to this room asking for gold," she says, her voice a low, admiring purr. "You have come for a crown."
She glances at her two colleagues, who give almost imperceptible, assenting nods. Their decision is made.
"You are not an inventor, Janus," she says, her smile widening. "You are a conqueror whose weapon is progress. Your terms are unprecedented. Then again, so is your leverage."
She stands, a clear signal that the negotiation is over, and the partnership is about to begin.
"Arnaud will draft a preliminary charter with you tonight. It will include the share-purchase options, bound to performance milestones. Welcome to the Guild of Coin, Master Janus. I foresee a long and brutally profitable relationship."
[About 08:08 PM on Day 65]
You extend your hand across the polished rosewood table. It is a simple gesture, but in this room, it is a treaty being signed.
The Matriarch's smile remains, a fixed, unreadable expression of immense satisfaction. She takes your hand. Her grip is firm, her skin cool to the touch. It is not the handshake of a friend, but of a fellow sovereign acknowledging a new power on the world stage.
"As for our plans," she says, releasing your hand and smoothly retaking her seat, the movement a signal for the others to relax. The intense pressure in the room dissipates, replaced by the focused energy of a strategy session. "Next week will be critical. We will move with a speed that will leave our rivals breathless."
She gestures to Arnaud, who has been standing silently by the door, absorbing every word. "Factor Arnaud will be your direct liaison. He will oversee the establishment of our new venture, which we shall call the 'Cascade Artisans Guild'."
She ticks the points off on her elegant fingers, a general laying out her order of battle.
"First, the legal framework. By noon tomorrow, Arnaud will deliver a finalized charter to you, complete with the share-option clauses. It will be ironclad and backed by the full legal and financial might of the Guild of Coin."
"Second, infrastructure. Your current warehouse is compromised and wholly inadequate. Tomorrow morning, you will be given the deed to a secure, multi-level workshop in the Guild's private commercial sector. It has been empty for a month. To any outside observer, it will appear as if we have simply leased the property to a promising new artisan."
"Third, supply. Effective immediately, I am diverting three of our largest parchment and alchemical contracts. The finest vellum from the northern forests and the purest mana-infused inks from the southern alchemists will be rerouted to your new workshop. You will have a stockpile sufficient for six months of continuous production by the end of the week."
She pauses, her silver eyes locking onto yours. "Fourth, personnel and security. We will provide you with a staff of ten of our most trusted scribes. They are skilled, but more importantly, they are bound to the Guild by debts and loyalty. They will sign magical non-disclosure oaths before they are ever allowed to see a Flow-Quill. Your only job will be to train them. Our own security forces, the 'Adjustors', will handle the... political protection. Any inquiries from the Silver Marches will be met with a wall of silence and misfortune."
She stands, signaling the end of the meeting. The sheer, overwhelming efficiency of her plan is breathtaking. While you were planning a disruption, she was planning the logistics of an empire.
"You have given us the weapon, Master Janus," she concludes, her voice carrying a note of finality. "We will provide the army and the fortress. Your focus should be on production. Arnaud will handle everything else."
Arnaud steps forward and gives a slight bow. "I will escort you to a secure townhouse for the night. We begin at dawn."
As you and Louie follow him out of the council chamber and back into the cool night air, the full reality of your gambit settles in. You came to Orléans on a mission of espionage for a rebellious Duke. In the space of an evening, you have become a founding partner in a venture that will shake the economic foundations of the continent, with the full backing of the most powerful financial institution in the kingdom. Your mission to get close to the Guildhall's secrets has succeeded beyond your wildest imaginings. You are no longer at the gates; you have just been handed a key to the throne room.
[About 08:00 AM on Day 66]
The week that follows is a masterclass in the terrifying efficiency of the Guild of Coin. You are no longer a two-man operation running on audacity; you are the core of a well-oiled, ruthlessly organized machine.
Factor Arnaud proves to be an impeccably precise instrument of the Matriarch's will. By noon on the first day, the charter for the Cascade Artisans Guild is in your hands, a heavy document bound in dark leather, its clauses as sharp and unyielding as forged steel. The share-purchase options are there, explicitly tied to profit milestones that seem astronomical to anyone but you.
You are moved from the temporary townhouse into the new workshop. It is less a building and more a small, self-contained fortress in the Guild's private district, surrounded by high stone walls and patrolled by the Guild's discreet but lethal 'Adjustors'. Inside, rows of scribing desks, perfectly lit by enchanted globes, await their new artisans. A vault for finished products is set into the foundation, and your private quarters on the top floor are both luxurious and defensible.
The supplies arrive like a tidal wave. Crates of the finest vellum, barrels of perfectly mixed alchemical inks, and stores of food and water—enough for a small army to withstand a siege. Louie, finding his footing in this new world, takes charge of inventory and security, his grim military discipline a perfect fit for the Guild's paranoid operational standards. He works alongside the Adjustors, quickly earning their respect as he transforms the workshop into a bastion.
On the third day, the ten scribes arrive. They are a quiet, severe-looking group, men and women whose faces show they understand the gravity of their new employment. They are led into the main workshop, where you stand waiting with ten Flow-Quills laid out on a black velvet cloth. After they swear magical oaths of secrecy that visibly drain them, your training begins.
There is a moment of stunned, reverent silence as the first scribe puts quill to parchment and a flawless line of magic flows forth. What follows is a week of intense, focused work. You are not just their trainer; you are their high priest, initiating them into a new religion of magical production. By the end of the week, they are working in near-silent unison, their ten quills moving in a constant, hypnotic dance. The first production run is completed: five hundred scrolls of Lesser Restoration, created in a timeframe that defies all known principles of the craft. They are stored in the vault, a treasure chest of logistical power awaiting the Guild's command.
You have built the engine. The Guild has provided the fuel. And as the week ends, you can feel it beginning to thrum with a power that will soon shake the world.
FACTION TURN: Day 66 - Day 72
While you lay the foundations of your new enterprise in Orléans, the gears of war grind on, indifferent to your schemes. The world does not wait.
The Southern Coast Burns: In Aquitania, the situation has escalated from mere raiding to a full-blown invasion. The Gold-Tier Admiral Tariq "the Scourge" has consolidated his Corsair forces. His fleets no longer strike and fade; they have established a fortified beachhead and are systematically overwhelming coastal defenses. Duchess Eléonore, her own forces stretched thin, has issued a desperate "Blood Bounty," offering enormous rewards for any mercenary company or champion who will fight for her cause. Her pleas to King Philippe have been met with stony silence.
The King's Gaze Remains East: King Philippe IV, dismissing the southern crisis as a ducal matter, has moved the bulk of the Royal Army to the border with Bourgogne and the Holy Reich. He sees Duke Charles's ambition as the primary threat to his crown and is determined to stare down both his vassal and the Kaiser, unaware or uncaring that his southern flank is collapsing.
The Northern War Begins: The Crimson King, Malachi Sanguine, seizes the opportunity created by the continental chaos. Seeing the forces of the Pontifical States and other potential crusaders distracted, he launches a massive, surprise offensive against the Woad Commandment. The Sanguine Sovereignty's legions, bolstered by monstrous thralls, cross the border and lay siege to the strategic linchpin of the northern defenses: the fortress of Blackwater Keep. Lord-Commander Murchadh Dòmhnallach is caught off guard, forced into a desperate defense.
The Merchants of Death: Observing the escalating conflicts, the Mageocracy of the Silver Marches makes a formal announcement that reverberates through every court and military camp. They will be hosting a grand "Argentum Arms Exposition" in Amsterdam, a neutral ground where they will auction off high-tier magical weapons, armor, and scrolls to all bidders. The city is set to become a hotbed of spies, diplomats, and quartermasters, each vying to arm their side for the bloody wars to come.
[About 09:00 AM on Day 73]
You stand in the cavernous silence of the vault beneath the workshop. Before you, stacked in neat, wax-sealed bundles, are the fruits of your first week of industrialized magic: five hundred perfect scrolls of Lesser Restoration. The sheer density of latent power makes the cool air hum. It is an arsenal of healing, a treasure that could turn the tide of a major battle. But it is not yet profit.
The heavy, soundproofed door to the vault swings open, and Factor Arnaud steps inside, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. He takes in the sight of the stacked scrolls, and for the first time, you see a flicker of genuine, unbridled satisfaction in his otherwise stoic features.
"A remarkable achievement, Master Janus," he says, his voice a low hum of approval. "The Matriarch is... pleased. The initial production has exceeded our most optimistic projections by twenty percent."
He walks over to a stack, running a gloved finger over the seal of a scroll bundle. "To answer the question that is undoubtedly on your mind," he continues, anticipating you perfectly, "no sales have been made. Therefore, no profit milestones have been reached."
He turns to face you, his expression once again the cool, professional mask of the Guild. "You must understand, we are no longer simple merchants trying to sell our wares. What you have created here is not a product to be trickled into the market. It is a strategic weapon. Releasing it requires precise timing to achieve maximum effect."
He clasps his hands behind his back, his posture shifting into that of a lecturer.
"The Argentum Arms Exposition has just been announced. The great powers are scrambling to secure every magical advantage they can. The southern war in Aquitania is about to become a brutal war of attrition, and the siege of Blackwater Keep will drain the resources of both the Sanguine Sovereignty and the Woad Commandment. In short, the demand for healing magic is about to skyrocket, and the supply lines from the Silver Marches will be strained."
Arnaud looks from the scrolls to you, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.
"This is our moment to strike. We can flood the market now and establish dominance, or we can hold our inventory, create a calculated shortage, and wait for the desperation—and the prices—to climb even higher. The Matriarch has instructed me to seek your counsel on this. You are the architect of this weapon, after all."
He gestures to the five hundred scrolls, a veritable fortune waiting to be unleashed.
"How and when do we deploy this... arsenal?"
You meet Factor Arnaud's inquisitive gaze, your mind already calculating the variables. This is not just a business decision; it is a political one. The Guild sees this as a weapon of finance. Duke Charles will see it as a weapon of war. Your true loyalty lies with the Duke's grand strategy, but you must present your choice to the Guild as a masterstroke of pure, profitable logic. To align those two goals, you need input from your patron.
"This decision will set the precedent for our entire venture," you state, your voice measured and deliberate. "It requires careful consideration. I will give you my strategic recommendation within one day."
Arnaud does not seem surprised. On the contrary, he gives a slight, approving nod. A rash decision would have concerned him; a request for deliberation shows you appreciate the gravity of the situation. "Of course, Master Janus. The Guild values prudence. The inventory will remain secured in the vault. I await your counsel."
He gives a crisp bow and exits the vault, leaving you in the humming silence with the fruits of your labor and the weight of your next move.