Ilthor's office sat high in a glass-paneled spire above the trade quarter, the only place in Varentis where the scent of grain outmatched the stench of coal smoke. The morning sun spilled across his desk, glinting off his ash tray, coins, and gold-capped ledgers from a dozen merchant houses. Everything in the room, from the thick Zaranian rugs underfoot to the jade-inlaid tobacco box beside him, screamed one thing:
Success.
Syr Gaius Ilthor leaned back in his wide chair, picking lint from his lapel as the breeze from the shuttered window stirred the edge of a hanging scroll, an old war map from the Rebellion, faded ink marking the old grain lines through the Eastern Lang. His dark skin gleamed in the morning light, rings catching every beam like signal flares. He was dressed in loose silks, tailored for his generous frame, and wore his belly like a badge of honor.
Across from him, perched neatly on the edge of his chair, sat Syr Varun al-Tarrek of Tyrellis, third-generation merchant and Syr, born into coin and sharpened by heat. He was young, but not green; dark hair combed back with scented oil, skin burnished by the relentless sun of the western trade roads.
His face was all sharp edges and careful confidence, cheekbones carved like a noble's, a trimmed beard framing a mouth quick to smile, slow to trust. He wore a soft azure tunic, sleeves cuffed just high enough to flash a silver ring and the slender glint of an enchanted earring, etched with protection runes only a Syr could afford.
Unlike most rich Syrs, soft from feasts and flattery, Varun looked carved for war. His frame was lean, honed, the kind that didn't just train but practiced. A curved sword hung at his hip, its scabbard black lacquer, the pommel set with blue sapphires that caught the light like stars, ornate, but not gaudy. A blade meant to impress and draw blood.
He didn't sit. He occupied. And every movement said the same thing: I belong here.
Varun swirled the dark wine in his cup, watching the way it caught the light. "Dinner last night was generous," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Didn't expect roast duck and a string quartet when your message said urgent business."
Ilthor gave a warm, lopsided grin. "An honor to host the Sand Serpent of Tyrellis. Even in urgency, we keep our courtesies. You've traveled far, so you'll dine well."
"I did," Varun said. "Too good. My waistcoat's still offended."
They shared a brief chuckle, the kind that lingered just long enough to feel polite, then faded into the waiting silence.
Ilthor leaned forward slightly, fingers drumming the arm of his chair. "Still, duck and music don't buy loyalty, do they?"
Varun didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned slightly, taking in the high ceilings of the private chamber, the gold-threaded tapestries, glancing at the old war map still hanging behind Ilthor's desk. A room of a man who'd earned his place, built brick by brick.
"So," Varun said, lounging back in the carved wood chair, "what did you need bad enough to drag me halfway across the Lang, Syr Ilthor? Surely not just to haggle over grain weights and Varenti wines?"
Ilthor leaned forward, resting his thick arms on the lacquered table, fingers laced. His rings clinked softly, each one earned, none given. "Didn't summon you to peddle spices, Varun. I need your voice. Tyrellis' merchant council swings heavy in the west, heavy enough to tip the scales on some plans I've got moving."
Varun stilled. "That's bold."
"It's overdue," Ilthor said with a low chuckle. "I've got my hands wrapped around every grain route leading into Varentis. The silos, the mills, the shipping manifests, they all go through me now, if it goes in a loaf, I've got a claim to it. My father handed me the keys after the Newfyre rebellion. I've spent the last decade building the locks."
"You'd starve a city," he said finally, "for politics."
"I'd starve it," Ilthor said quietly, "for progress."
"Just long enough," he continued, voice dropping. "Long enough for chaos to settle in, for order to crack at the seams. Varro's halfway to the grave. The moment he breathes his last, every old house in this city's going to be drawing knives beneath the tablecloths. I just intend to tilt the table."
"You step in." Varun sipped his drink. "Power by grain."
Ilthor grinned. "The oldest kind of power."
Varun nodded slowly, swirling his drink. "Even if you choke the city from your end, the Empire won't let Varentis starve, not entirely. The Strand's still open. And Tyrellis doesn't sleep."
Ilthor said nothing, he didn't need reminding.
The Palatinate of Tyrellis, third largest city in the Empire, perched at the Empire's only land border like a golden gatehouse, straddled along the frozen choke point known as the Strand. It was more than a city. It was a funnel, a bottleneck between the Eastern Lang and the rest of the continent of Enada. Every trade wagon from the western kingdoms passed through it, every merchant fleet looking to offload luxuries to the hungry East docked at its wharves first. Silk from Solmark, spices from Arzur, temple glass, even grain when the harvests dipped too low, all of it flowed through Tyrellis like blood through a vein. It wasn't wealth that made Tyrellis dangerous. It was control. Because in a place like that, coin came with conditions. And the council that ran it, Varun's council—knew how to twist a condition into a blade.
"That's why I brought you here." Ilthor's voice turned quiet. Serious. "When the shortages begin, I want Tyrellis to play along. Temporarily. A convenient shipping 'accident.' A border dispute. Maybe a misfiled ledger or two."
Varun was silent for a moment. "You want the council to lie."
"I want the council to do what it does best: protect its future investments."
"And what's in it for us?"
Ilthor leaned forward now, the firelight flickering across his gold-threaded collar. "Governor Varro kept Tyrellan merchants out of Varentis for years. Said your foreign goods undercut his beloved noble houses. Blocked permits. Bribed inspectors to delay storefronts until the coin dried up."
"I remember." Varun's lips curled faintly. "My cousin lost a thousand gold on a failed glassworks scheme. Said the licensing fees doubled the day he opened."
Ilthor smiled. "When I step in, that ends. I won't protect relics. I'll open this city to your council. Storefronts in the Noble Quarter. Access to the processing plants. Priority contracts in the Gutter markets. You get footholds. You get profits. You get permanence."
Varun ran a thumb over the rim of his cup. "And in return, we let your city starve for a little while."
Ilthor met his gaze. "It's just hunger. Not death. They'll survive. And when they eat again, they'll remember who fed them."
Varun looked at him a long time, and then finally gave a short, amused snort.
"By Basst, you really think like a noble."
Ilthor grinned. "No, friend. I just think like someone who was never allowed to be one."
Varun nodded, slow. "A fairer world might have made you Palatine already."
Ilthor laughed, loud and full. "Fair? You come from Tyrellis and speak of fairness? Please. The only fair thing in this world is coin. Coin, and the power to keep it when they come clawing."
Ilthor raised two fingers in a lazy flick. From the far wall, a servant moved, silent, barefoot, and fast. The boy couldn't have been older than fifteen. His ears had been cut in childhood, sewn shut with seal-wire so no sound could pass through. He'd been trained in the House of the Red Bell, an obedience house known for raising quiet hands that neither heard nor read lips.
The boy bowed once, never looking directly at either man, and moved to the cabinet with practiced ease. He poured the plum liquor into two carved bone cups, no clink, no spill, then stepped back, eyes lowered, offering them on a silver tray.
Ilthor took one, passed the other to Varun without ceremony.
"They give us titles when it suits their books," Ilthor said, swirling the plum liquor in his cup. "Syr. Merchant-Prince. Honorary this, steward that. But none of it means shit unless you've bought it in blood and ledger. That's why I keep three wives, feed eight mouths, run two mills, and still sleep like a babe while those perfumed lords toss in their silk sheets fretting if their wine came vintage or vinegar."
Varun let out a quiet chuckle, the kind meant to flatter but not provoke. He took a slow sip.
"And Lady Varro?"
Ilthor's hand paused mid-swish. His eyes didn't shift, but the temperature in the room seemed to lower a touch.
He set the cup down with care. "Now there's a woman who don't sleep easy. But she dreams big."
Ilthor's lip curled. "If she didn't have that estate and her daddy's rot-sick bones to hide behind, she'd be selling secrets to gutterfolk just to keep herself in jewelry."
Varun raised a brow. "You think she's vulnerable?"
Ilthor's grin was slow, wide, and full of teeth. "I think she's pretending not to be. Which is worse."
They drank in silence for a moment, both men watching the smoke rise from the distant chimneys of the Administrative Seat.
"Things in this city are gonna turn. And when they do, the man with the grain gets to pick who starves."
Ilthor rose from the table with a grunt that felt more like punctuation than effort, wiping his fingers on a silk handkerchief tucked into his sleeve. He gestured with a casual roll of the wrist toward the far door.
"Come," he said. "Let me show you what real power smells like."
Varun stood, smoothing his robes, and followed. The deaf boy opened the door for them, eyes fixed on the floor, and closed it behind them with a whisper of polished wood.