[About 09:00 PM on Day 73]
That night, in the privacy of your quarters, you initiate the clandestine communication channel Sir Kaelen established before you left Dijon. It is a simple, elegant system built for plausible deniability.
You take a sheet of common parchment, not the fine vellum of your workshop, and with a simple charcoal stick, you write a short, coded message. You use a cipher based on Francian mercantile shipping manifests, a code so mundane it would bore any but the most dedicated royal cryptographer.
The message is brief:
> To the Lion of the East,
>
> The Orléans venture has produced a surplus of medicinal goods. Initial run exceeds five hundred units. We now hold a strategic asset capable of disrupting the continental market at will. The local partners wish to deploy it for maximum financial gain.
>
> Requesting your directive on how this asset can best serve your campaign.
>
> - J
You seal the simple note with a plain wax seal. Following the protocol, you leave the workshop and walk two blocks to a small, all-night bakery. The air is thick with the smell of yeast and hot bread. Without a word, you purchase a loaf of rye bread, paying with a specific combination of copper and silver coins. As the baker turns to get your change, you slip the note into a designated loose brick in the side of the massive stone oven. You take your change and the bread, and walk away. The exchange is silent, anonymous, and complete.
You have sent your message. Now, you must wait.
[About 11:00 PM on Day 74]
You spend the next day in the workshop, overseeing the scribes and discussing logistics with Louie, projecting an aura of calm deliberation. The reply comes late the following night. A soft scratching at your window, like a bird's claws. When you open it, there is nothing there but a small, sharp stone tied to a roll of parchment resting on the sill.
You unroll it. The message is in the same mercantile cipher, its tone as blunt and imperious as the Duke himself.
> J,
>
> Your venom is potent. Do not waste it on a single bite.
>
> First, the fangs. A quarter of your inventory is to be prepared for immediate, covert transport. A wagon from the "Dijon Vintners Collective" will arrive at the south gate in three days. See that it is loaded. This is my supply.
>
> Second, the poison. Once my supply is clear of the city, you will release the remainder of the inventory. Do not hold it. Do not wait. Flood Orléans. Crash the price. Create chaos for the King's quartermasters. Let them choke on a market they can no longer control.
>
> Your loyalty will be rewarded.
>
> - The Lion
You burn the note, the parchment turning to black ash in your hand. The Duke's orders are clear, brutal, and perfectly in character. He secures his own advantage first, then uses the rest as a weapon to sow economic chaos in his enemy's heartland. It is a two-pronged strategy of supply and sabotage.
Now, you have your answer. Your task is to convince the Guild of Coin that this is not an act of treason, but a stroke of financial genius.
[About 10:00 AM on Day 75]
You request another meeting. Factor Arnaud, ever-efficient, arranges it with a speed that suggests the Matriarch was eagerly awaiting your decision. Within the hour, you are once again seated in the silent, opulent council chamber, the three heads of the Guild of Coin watching you from across the polished rosewood table.
The Matriarch opens the proceedings, her voice as smooth as ever. "You have had your day to deliberate, Master Janus. Have you determined the most profitable course of action?"
You meet her gaze, projecting an aura of absolute, unshakeable confidence. "I have. Your proposal to hold the inventory is the safe play. It is the logical play. It is the play of a merchant protecting an investment."
You let that hang in the air for a moment before delivering the pivot. "But we are not merchants. We are conquerors. And our goal is not merely profit. It is unconditional surrender."
The two old men exchange a wary glance. The Matriarch's silver eyes narrow, her full attention now laser-focused on you.
"Your strategy would net us a fortune," you continue, your voice low and intense. "My strategy will net us an empire. We do not hold. We do not wait. We strike now, with overwhelming force. We release the entire inventory onto the market at once. Not to make a profit, but to shatter the very concept of the scroll market as it currently exists."
You lean forward, painting a picture of calculated chaos. "When five hundred top-quality healing scrolls appear for a price that is financially impossible, the Mageocracy will not see us as competitors. They will see us as a cataclysm. Their entire business model will be rendered obsolete in a single afternoon. They will panic. And in their panic, they will become predictable."
"They will not declare war," you state with certainty. "A nation of merchants does not declare war on an enemy they cannot find, who wields a weapon they cannot comprehend. They will send envoys. They will come to this table, bleeding from a thousand cuts, and they will ask for terms. And that is when we present our true demands."
You look from one face to the next, ensuring they grasp the sheer scale of your ambition.
"We will make it very clear that we are not here to start a war with them. We are here to offer them a... partnership. A chance to survive. We will demand they give us a controlling interest in their other profit centers. Their exclusive reagent mines. Their masterwork enchantment forges. Their entire logistical network. In exchange, we will graciously allow them to license our technology and become a subsidiary of our new empire."
You smile, a cold, sharp expression.
"We use the Flow-Quill to put a knife to the throat of their scroll business, only to force them to hand over the keys to their entire kingdom. Why should we fight a bloody war over the carcass of the scroll market, battling a dozen lesser carrion-feeders, when we can force the living beast to kneel and offer us its heart?"
Silence.
The two old men are staring at you, their expressions a mixture of shock and avaricious glee. They are men of numbers, and they are watching the numbers on an imaginary ledger climb into the stratosphere.
The Matriarch is utterly still. She looks at you for a long, silent moment, and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face. It is a smile of pure, unadulterated admiration.
"You are not content to win a battle, are you, Master Janus?" she says, her voice a low purr of approval. "You seek unconditional surrender."
She looks at her colleagues, who give her emphatic, greedy nods. The decision is unanimous.
"Excellent," she declares. "A brutal, elegant, and far more profitable strategy. We will proceed at once." She turns to Arnaud. "Factor, prepare for a full market release."
You hold up a hand, stopping them. "There is one final component to ensure a flawless victory." You adopt the tone of a master strategist revealing his final gambit.
"Before we flood Orléans, we must test the wider distribution network. I have an anonymous but powerful buyer in the east, a potential partner for future expansion. As a show of faith—and to gauge the security of long-range transport—I propose we send a 'test shipment' of one hundred and twenty-five scrolls to them immediately. Covertly. It allows us to secure a future client while making our primary strike here even more impactful."
The Matriarch considers this for only a second. To her, it is a minor side-deal, a small investment to secure a larger network. It is simply good business.
"A prudent addition," she agrees without hesitation. "See to it, Arnaud. Prepare a shipment of one hundred and twenty-five units for Master Janus's 'eastern partners'. Then, once they are clear of the city, you will unleash the remaining three hundred and seventy-five upon Orléans. I want the Mageocracy's stock to be worthless by nightfall."
The plan is set. You have perfectly aligned the Duke's directive with the Guild's ambition. You will arm your patron and simultaneously detonate an economic bomb in the heart of the King's domain, all while appearing to be a genius of commerce.
[About 04:00 AM on Day 78]
The night is cold and a thick, damp fog rolls off the Loire, blanketing the southern districts of Orléans in a shroud of grey. It is the perfect cover. There is no grand procession, no overt display of force. There is only a single, unremarkable wagon, its canvas cover emblazoned with the faded crest of the "Dijon Vintners Collective," rumbling to a halt in the shadow of the city's south gate.
Louie oversees the transfer with the silent, grim efficiency of a soldier. Under the watchful eyes of the Guild's Adjustors, three heavy, unassuming crates—marked as containing 'glassware'—are loaded from a Guild cart onto the vintner's wagon. The driver, a leathery-faced man who asks no questions and offers no pleasantries, signs a mundane shipping manifest with a piece of charcoal. No words are exchanged. A slight nod from Louie confirms the cargo is secure.
You watch from a nearby rooftop, a silent observer to the flawless execution of your plan. The wagon creaks into motion, its wheels grinding on the cobblestones before the sound is swallowed by the fog. It heads east, carrying one hundred and twenty-five scrolls of healing—a Duke's ransom in logistical power—to arm your patron for the war to come.
The first part of your plan is complete. The fangs have been delivered.
---
[About 11:00 AM on Day 78]
Hours later, as the morning sun burns away the last of the fog, the second part of your plan detonates. It is not a single event, but a coordinated, city-wide economic assault.
Simultaneously, at five different Guild-owned trading posts across the city's busiest districts, identical notices are posted. The message is brutally simple:
> Cascade Artisans Guild – Inaugural Sale.
> Scroll of Lesser Restoration. Superior Quality.
> Four Gold Crowns.
> While stocks last.
The effect is not immediate. For the first ten minutes, there is only confusion and disbelief. Four crowns is not a discount; it is a lie. It is less than the material cost of the parchment and inks alone. Scribes and apothecaries scoff, assuming it's a scam selling flawed or fake scrolls.
Then, the first reports trickle in. A mercenary captain, willing to risk a few coins, buys one and finds it flawless. A healer, desperate for any advantage, confirms its potency. The news, carried by runners and word of mouth, spreads not like a rumor, but like a contagion.
What follows is pure, unadulterated chaos.
The city's professional class stampedes. The Guild's trading posts are swarmed. Healers, sellsword captains, Royal Army quartermasters, and agents of noble houses shove and claw their way to the front of burgeoning mobs. Fights break out. The City Watch is called to restore order and end up trying to push their way through the crowd to buy scrolls for themselves.
It is a frenzy born of desperation and opportunity. An entire city's supply of a critical wartime commodity, once scarce and expensive, is now available for a price that defies all logic. The established scroll merchants of Orléans can only watch in horror as their entire business model evaporates in a single hour.
By noon, it is over. Three hundred and seventy-five scrolls have been sold. The trading posts are empty. The crowds disperse, leaving behind a city in a state of economic shock.
---
[About 02:00 PM on Day 78]
The fallout is immediate and catastrophic. The established market for Lesser Restoration scrolls in Orléans has not just crashed; it has been annihilated. Any scribe holding inventory now possesses nothing more than worthless parchment. The King's quartermasters, who were too slow to react, are now in a panic, their primary source of reliable healing magic having vanished, replaced by an unknown, unpredictable entity.
In the silent council chamber of the Guild of Coin, the atmosphere is electric. The Matriarch looks at you, not with the cool appraisal of a partner, but with the profound, predatory satisfaction of a queen who has just watched her newest dragon burn a rival city to the ground.
The profits from the sale—a small fortune of 1,500 gold crowns—sit on the Guild's ledgers, but the money is an afterthought. Your venture has not just met its first profit milestone; it has shattered it.
"A flawless victory, Master Janus," the Matriarch says, her voice a purr of pure admiration. "The first panicked scrying-calls from our agents in Amsterdam have already arrived. The Mageocracy is in chaos. They are bleeding, and they don't even know who holds the knife."
You have done more than just succeed. You have proven yourself to be a prophet. You have solidified your position not as a mere partner, but as the indispensable visionary of their most profitable, and most dangerous, enterprise.
Your Ledger is updated from Level 4 (Stable) to Level 6 (Affluent).
New Key Item Acquired: Charter of the Cascade Artisans (Share-Purchase Option Unlocked). You now have the contractual right to purchase your first tranche of shares in the Guild of Coin itself, a privilege no outsider has been granted in a century.
You came to this city as a spy and an agent of destabilization. You are now a prince of commerce, a kingmaker with an economic empire at your fingertips, sitting at the very heart of the kingdom you were sent to undermine.
[About 02:05 PM on Day 78]
You meet the Matriarch's admiring gaze with a calm, steady expression. The chaos you have unleashed is merely the logical conclusion of your initial plan. Now is the time to claim the prize you truly came for.
"The victory is ours, Matriarch," you say, your voice even. "And per the terms of our charter, I would like to exercise the option to purchase my first tranche of shares in the Guild of Coin."
The two old men stiffen slightly. This is the moment the transaction changes from pure profit to a transfer of power. But the Matriarch's smile does not waver. The contract is ironclad, and your success is undeniable. She gives a single, sharp nod to Factor Arnaud.
"Of course," she says, as if discussing a minor transaction. "The charter is clear. Arnaud will process the transfer. The cost will be deducted from your share of the venture's profits."
It is an enormous sum, an amount of gold that could fund a small army. But it is a price you gladly pay to buy a seat at the table of kings. The transaction is handled with silent, bureaucratic efficiency. Paper is signed, a ledger is updated, and a new certificate of ownership, embossed with the Guild's silver scales, is handed to you. It is more than paper; it is a symbol of your entry into the kingdom's true ruling class.
Your Ledger is updated from Level 6 (Affluent) to Level 4 (Stable).
Key Item Gained: Certificate of Guild Partnership (Minor Shareholder).
[About 09:00 PM on Day 78]
That night, alone in your secure quarters, you draft another coded message. The tone is different from the last. It is not the report of a subordinate, but the update of a highly successful, independent agent.
> To the Lion of the East,
>
> The vintner's shipment is away. Consider your armory stocked.
>
> The local market has been shattered per your directive. Panic is widespread among Royalist agents. Our new venture is now the sole controller of this critical supply, giving us a powerful lever of influence within the city.
>
> The local partners are... pleased. I have successfully leveraged our victory to secure a permanent, high-level position within their organization. I am no longer an outsider. I am inside the fortress.
>
> The King's purse is now within my reach.
>
> - J
You seal the message and deliver it via the same bakery, a simple, anonymous transaction in the dead of night. You have armed the Duke's soldiers, thrown his enemy's logistics into chaos, and infiltrated the very heart of their financial power.
You don't expect a reply. There is no need for one. Your actions speak louder than any words. In the ducal palace in Dijon, Duke Charles will read your report, and a slow, wolfish grin will spread across his face. His serpent has not just found a way into the King's garden; it has begun to poison the well.
[About 09:00 AM on Day 79]
The week that follows your economic blitzkrieg is not one of frantic action, but of immense, tectonic shifts happening just beneath the surface of daily life. You have thrown a mountain into the lake, and now you spend the week observing the tsunami as it reaches distant shores. Per your decision, you take a step back, focusing on consolidating your position and allowing the Guild to manage the fallout with the Mageocracy.
Your daily routine transforms. You are no longer just the inventor in the workshop; you are a Guild Shareholder. Each morning, Factor Arnaud—who now behaves less like a handler and more like a chief of staff—arrives not with orders, but with summaries. He presents you with daily reports on market fluctuations, the panicked reactions of Orléans' merchant class, and intelligence briefs on the movements of Royalist quartermasters. You are being integrated into the Guild's central nervous system, given access to the flow of information that is the true source of their power.
Louie, meanwhile, settles into his role with grim satisfaction. He works with the Guild's Adjustors, not as a client, but as a respected commander. He drills them, establishes new security protocols for the workshop, and hardens it into a fortress. He is the rock around which your new enterprise is built, a silent, unbreachable wall of steel and vigilance.
[About 02:00 PM on Day 82]
The inevitable arrives. A high-level diplomatic envoy from the Silver Marches arrives in Orléans. They do not come in force, but with the quiet, desperate urgency of a patient seeking a surgeon. They request a meeting not with the King or the city's governor, but with the Matriarch of the Guild of Coin.
You are not invited to the meeting. The Matriarch, in a shrewd political move, keeps you—the weapon itself—held in reserve. It is a negotiation between sovereigns, and she positions the Guild as the sole power at the table.
The meeting lasts four hours.
[About 07:00 PM on Day 82]
Factor Arnaud provides you with a full transcript that evening. The exchange was exactly as you predicted, but colder. The Mageocracy's envoy, an Archmagister of formidable power and intellect, attempted to probe, to threaten subtly, to understand the nature of the cataclysm that had befallen his nation's primary industry.
The Matriarch met his inquiries with a wall of polite, unhelpful silence. She confirmed only that the Guild had entered into an exclusive partnership with a new, revolutionary production method. When the Archmagister spoke of "market stability" and "mutual interests," the Matriarch simply laid out her terms, not as a proposal, but as a statement of fact.
The Cascade Artisans Guild would be restructured. The Guild of Coin would retain 49% ownership. You would retain your personal stake. And the Mageocracy of the Silver Marches would be permitted to purchase the remaining 51%, effectively turning their entire nation into the majority shareholder and primary client of the very entity that was destroying them. It was not a partnership; it was an offer of vassalage. In exchange, they would gain access to the Flow-Quill technology under strict licensing, saving their economy from total collapse.
The envoy, left with no alternative but ruin, agreed to take the terms back to his Conclave for ratification. The unconditional surrender was in motion.
[About 11:00 PM on Day 85]
A coded message arrives for you, delivered by the same clandestine method as before. It is from the Duke. It is short, and for a man like him, almost effusive.
> J,
>
> The shipment arrived. The quality is exceptional. My field surgeons and mages believe you have sent them a miracle.
>
> The chaos in Orléans has forced the King to divert funds to stabilize his own markets, weakening his position on my border. Your work is more effective than a legion of knights.
>
> You have exceeded all expectations. Continue.
>
> - The Lion
As the week ends, your position is utterly transformed. You are a minor shareholder in the most powerful financial institution in the kingdom. You are the silent partner in a new venture that is holding an entire nation hostage. And you are the most valued and effective agent of the single greatest threat to the Francian crown.
You hold your certificate of Guild partnership in one hand and the Duke's message in the other. You are serving two masters whose interests are, for now, perfectly aligned. The question is no longer how to get into the fortress. The question is what you will do now that you are helping to run it.