“The best remedy to poverty is being born into a wealthy household.”


    – Mercantis saying.


    <hr>


    Lennox’s fingers drummed an erratic beat against the splintering wood of the table. The rebellion spilled like sand from a broken hourglass in meticulous efforts. The city had gone from teetering off a precipice to standing behind a guarded railing in the month that had passed since the tokens had first been announced. Blood that had once promised to spill like ink now flowed back into the well. Perhaps the fault lay with him. Perhaps his ambitions were too small. He''d believed that it only took a spark and kindling to light a fire, when only a raging inferno would survive when the rains began to fall.


    At first, he''d dismissed the threat of the tokens, believing that none would be so foolish as to entrust all their wealth with a single Merchant Lord. At first, it had even proven true. The market squares turned violent at the cries of starving peasants. Most remaining market stalls had morphed into deserted husks. Those still open were now shadowed by fear, their wares bought and sold with trembling hands in dark corners.


    Then, practicality gave way to desperation and that preconception had proven false. The Merchant Lords bound their fate to that of Merchant Lord Mauricius. Now, Mercantis did its utmost to brand itself under Mauricius''s quill.


    The Revolutionary''s scheme with the fae dragged on like an ox at the end of a hot summer day, although not all momentum was lost. It would be long before Mauricius''s tokens had trickled down to the destitute. The poor traded false coins in dark corners. Lennox could encourage the practice by refusing to trade in anything else.


    The Ravel Bank had also expanded in foreign markets, but progress abroad meant nothing if the scheme unravelled at the source and people became less reliant on his fae coins by the day.


    “Prepare another message,” Lennox muttered. His thoughts spilled across the page as he examined the future. The cracks in the once fertile soil of the city widened. Something else was remiss. Secrets spilled like grain from an open sack into the hands of his enemies. Lennox hadn''t found the culprit, but a reckoning would come when he did.


    The Apprentice Salesman had woven through their operation like quicksilver through cracks, his silver tongue and false promises preventing the collapse of the Revolution with the same ease he once used to sell the Guild Exchange. His charisma and deception allowed him to effortlessly pull key figures into their current. Perhaps he could use the man to search the fields for those who made the tokens and bring the system to its knees?


    Lennox had already planted seeds of doubt within the crowds. He’d whispered of a failing system built on nothing but honeyed lies and the glint of gold. It was time to accelerate the sabotage: those most loyal to the Revolution would seek to undermine the token validation system, while Lennox sought to kill Mauricius and topple the system he established.


    “Focus,” Lennox muttered under his breath. His mind often drifted as the weeds grew. He would give the orders to find the sorcerers, but would it be enough? Would it burn the fields as it had been meant to? Or had the harvest passed him by without him even realizing it.


    The first clouds had appeared on the horizon, for those with the talent to see. The Merchant Lords and their bloviating servants were restless despite the tokens. A whisper here. A rumour there. Empty pages he could fill, if he could seize them before they were claimed by the flames.


    There was talk of new voices rising within the Revolution—figures who spoke not of overthrowing the old, but of reforming it. Some even flirted with the idea of making peace with Mauricius. They had coined the phrase From Dust, We Build, an open betrayal of the very ideas he extolled.


    Madness.


    Lennox sneered.


    As if the cow could ever reconcile with the butcher.


    How long before the lines of his support wavered entirely?


    Lennox could read the storm on the horizon. It was only a matter of time before the Revolution tore itself apart. The will to rebel against authority was akin to a sheaf of loose papers set beside an open door. It wouldn''t be long until the wind blew it away.


    Lennox leaned back, rubbing his temples. He had to harvest the crop. But first, he needed to restore momentum, before the rains arrived and doused the fires he’d set. He''d free more of those bound in servitude, stoke their fires to stage an uprising and tear down the Merchant Lords before the Revolution fell apart.


    Lennox stared at the graffiti through the cracked window. The image was crude — a bird in flight, a token clutched in its talons — but the message was clear. The streets whispered rebellion. Streets that had been empty for days.


    “What have we here?” the voice of the Apprentice Salesman drew him in like a fly to honey.


    Lennox turned towards the figure chewing a loaf of bread by the door.


    “Use your charm to write us an open invitation to the sorcerer’s lairs,” he ordered, ignoring the man’s pout. “They’re the roots of this cursed tree, and I intend to rip it from the ground.”


    The pretty boy shrugged, then grinned. “Careful with roots. Pull one,” the boy closed an empty fist, “and the whole garden comes down.”


    “What happened to the man motivated only by those he could fool?” Lennox prodded.


    “Still here,” the Salesman mumbled between bites. “It’s why I haven’t left.”


    “We’re not gardeners,” Lennox said, sighing.


    “Careful, Lennox,” the Salesman replied as he departed. “Lest you look in the mirror and see only the weed.”


    Lennox considered the words as he fingered the invitation on the desk beside him. Rumours had arrived from Helike. The Tyrant hadn’t been seen for months. His absence combined with his proclivity for making use of fae coinage presented fertile soil for those prepared to till the fields. Was it time? Should Lennox depart from Mercantis?


    No, not yet.


    Not before the city had burned to the ground.


    <hr>


    The chilled Baalite red in his goblet had begun to lose its frost, but Mauricius still hadn’t touched it. The Irenian Plaza below glittered with life, its mosaics shifting in hues under the setting sun. From this hidden balcony at Sub Rosa, the City of Bought and Sold looked almost tranquil—an illusion of serenity.


    Mauricius was too jaded to trust illusions, no matter how beautiful. Whispers of fae gold resurfacing in the black markets added another layer of instability to the city. A shadow economy that not only emboldened his rivals, but also undermined Mauricius’s efforts to establish the tokens as the bedrock of Mercantis’s recovery, compounding the economic challenges he faced. It rankled that his best recourse to counter that complication was to offer his own alternative at cost.


    He adjusted his rings as he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as his thoughts returned to the day’s correspondence. The Revolutionary’s attacks on the Praesi specialists had grown bolder. Three estates housing sorcerers responsible for the manufacture of tokens had been struck in a single week, two of which had fallen silent for hours before mercenaries drove the attackers out. The delays alone had been costly, but the rumours spreading through the city?


    Those were potentially ruinous.


    The Revolutionary had taken to branding these strikes as a fight for the freedom of indentured servants, claiming the token system served only the Merchant Lords. The man was a dangerous ideologue, Mauricius thought. Dangerous because he was clever enough to dress his chaos as liberation.


    “Wine,” he said aloud.


    An attendant appeared instantly, pouring another goblet with practised precision. Mauricius dismissed him with a flick of his fingers, turning his attention back to the cityscape. Rebellion festered somewhere out there.


    Not for long.


    His next response to the attacks would have to be swift. Mauricius would order the construction of fortified facilities with enchanted wards woven like webs through their perimeters. Their defences would be designed by the finest enchanters available for hire. Thick walls of enchanted stone would rise into the city skyline, guarded by well-paid mercenaries whose contracts guaranteed loyalty for as long as the coin flowed. Relocation of key personnel would also begin. Mauricius had already overseen the movement of one particularly valuable sorcerer to his countryside estate, ensuring their work continued uninterrupted.


    He knew these measures were not insurmountable. But insurmountable wasn’t necessary, provided his pockets held until after the Revolutionary starved. Still, the Revolutionary was nothing if not resourceful, and desperation bred creativity.


    Countering the rebellion’s propaganda would require more finesse. Rumblings of discontent from those stricken by poverty grew louder. The dismantlement of the perception that tokens only served to enrich Merchant Lords at the expense of the poor was imperative, before rivers of blood painted the streets of Mercantis. Mauricius’s propaganda campaign sought to pre-empt this by framing the tokens as a shared safeguard for all, linking their stability to the survival of the city itself.


    It was necessary for the Merchant Lords to be framed as essential to the city’s survival. The attacks would likewise be labelled as reckless acts of sabotage. Labelled as nothing more than “strikes against the very stability that fed the poor.” Mauricius would see to it that in addition to the posters adorning the markets and docks during his next food distribution campaign. Posters that bore slogans like: "Protect Our Prosperity—Protect the Tokens, or Where There Is Steel, There Is Hope."


    The true finishing touch to his masterpiece, however, would be the Token Assurance Program.


    Mauricius would unveil it soon during his next speech at the Guild Exchange. For a modest fee, citizens would be able to insure their tokens against a variety of eventualities, including theft and physical destruction. The offer of security would strike a nerve in a city gripped by fear. Mauricius could already imagine the lines for enrolment snaking out of his new bank within hours of his announcement.


    Capitalizing on fear remained a reliable method for accruing currency, after all.


    But defence and propaganda alone were not enough. Mauricius was not one to wait idly for the next blow. The rebellion’s fractures had become increasingly apparent, and he had every intention of exploiting them.


    Agents had begun to infiltrate the rebellion’s lower ranks through intermediaries, whispering poison into the ears of discontented groups. Mistrust spread like rot. Some rebels began to question whether their neighbours were Revolutionary loyalists or Mauricius’s spies.


    And then there was Songbird.


    Her charm and resourcefulness had earned her the trust of key parts of the Revolutionary’s organization, although she had yet to catch the snake himself. She balanced on a razor-thin line of intrigue. Her carefully planted whispers drove suspicion between their leaders and destabilized their unity, while she funnelled intelligence back to Mauricius. It was a surprise how she always managed to ensure her own position remained unassailable.


    Her capture of the Apprentice Salesman’s capture had been a devastating blow to the Revolutionary. She’d arranged for another ‘Merchant Lord’ to show interest in purchasing the Guild Exchange. Why the Apprentice Salesman had been convinced another would fall prey to the same feat remained a mystery, but regardless, the crook had been caught. Songbird had claimed no credit for the feat in an effort to ensure her cover remained intact, but Mauricius could follow the money to its source.


    All of a sudden, the shadowy silhouette of an attendant standing past the sculpted marble arch moved.


    “Merchant Lord Mauricius, there is someone here to see you,” the girl said, her hazel eyes not meeting his own. “A representative from the breakaway faction of the Revolution.”


    “Send them in,” Mauricius replied.


    The Merchant Lord did not bother to ask if the man had been searched for weapons. Only those who had undergone the most extensive of checks would be allowed into his presence at all. A thin, weathered man entered as the servant stepped aside. His eyes flickered around the Sub Rosa, though he quickly masked the unease with a polite bow.


    “Lord Mauricius,” the man greeted, “A proposal-”


    “Sit,” the Merchant Lord said with false warmth. “I assume you have grievances?”A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The man’s fingers twisted in the hem of his cotton shirt as he nodded.


    “We’ve seen the kind of freedom the Revolutionary offers…” the man trailed off for a moment. “His promises were lies. Word is, you offer real change.”


    Mauricius studied the man for a moment before dismissing him and leaning back in his chair. “Tell me, what is it you want?”


    Mauricius was certain the rebel''s impassioned speech was fascinating, but he found more wisdom in the rim of his wineglass while he sat and nodded along. The Merchant Lord plastered a consoling frown on his face as he nodded along. Yes, this presented an opportunity that he could use.


    “It’s a terrible thing,” Mauricius lied.


    There was some irony, Mauricius reflected, that the man who had sold the man his wife had cheated with into slavery now considered ending indentured servitude. It could serve as a powerful public gesture. The other Merchant Lords were his most likely detractors. Fortunately for him… they had become dependent on his tokens and could hardly refuse his terms.


    Mauricius smiled and leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said, “what if I offered to abolish indentured servitude as my first act as Merchant Prince?”


    The rebel’s eyes widened. “You would do that? But—”


    “I would,” he agreed.


    He would also increase fees on various services in order to recoup any losses incurred, but the rebel didn’t need to learn about that at all. They could have their freedom and he could line his pockets in the aftermath.


    The rebel leaned forward. “We’ll spread the word. Tell others to support you.”


    “Indeed,” Mauricius said with a smile. “Consider this an investment in the future.”


    Mauricius hummed as the rebel left. One small act had seen to it that the Revolution would splinter even further. Meanwhile, he’d expand his influence further, all while appearing the benefactor. The other Merchant Lords would have no choice but to fall in line.


    Mauricius swirled the wine in his goblet, finally taking a sip. It was warm now, but for once he didn’t mind. His attention drifted to the mosaics below, and the thought struck him that Mercantis itself was much like Aeolian’s work: a fragile beauty maintained by sacrifice.


    The city would endure.


    He would ensure it.


    Despite the Revolutionary''s best efforts, trust in his system slowly grew. The Sahelians had approached, seeking to negotiate for both mercenary contracts and the acquisition of both rare and unusual commodities. He’d gone so far as to not only arrange a mercenary contract for them, but for himself as well. Best to be prepared for when the Revolution let out its last, hacking cough.


    The acceptance of his system among one of the more powerful Praesi noble houses had done much to bolster its reputation, and others would soon follow the path they paved. Mauricius intended to expand his ambitions beyond Mercantis with time. Perhaps it was possible to extend his bank across the full length of Calernia.


    The Revolutionary’s flames burned bright now, but those fires consumed themselves faster than anything else. All Mauricius needed to do was stoke the panic, sow division, and wait.


    And when the city turned to him—desperate for stability—he would be ready.


    The most prosperous Merchant Prince to ever have lived.


    Mauricius allowed himself a smile.


    <hr>


    Lennox felt more exposed than he had in some time.


    Old farmer’s instincts screamed at him like they once had when storm clouds gathered over unprotected crops.


    The sun had dipped below the horizon, spilling fire across the Mercantis skyline as he stood on the broken parapet of an abandoned watchtower. He’d rather be anywhere else, and yet this opportunity demanded he show his face. The coins would not disappear a second time.


    And so he looked down upon this who followed the lines he spilled.


    The city unfolded below like pages of a merchant’s ledger, its columns of light and shadow charting the balance between profit and loss.


    There would be no balance tonight.


    It had been some time since the Prince of Nightfall had last shown his face, and Lennox had thought little of it. The whims of the fae were not to be gleaned by mortal minds. A mistake, in retrospect, for the disappearance of the Prince was but a prelude to the vanishing of his currency.


    A disappearance which also marked the end of Lennox''s time in Mercantis.


    His plan was reckless.


    Mauricius had made fortresses of estates. Striking at his holdings required precision, magic, and desperation in equal measure. But precision had frayed in the hands of those who had turned their backs on revolution, and desperation was the only currency the few that remained had left.


    “Our fields of mercy may lie empty,” he announced, “but our rivers of spite run full.”


    Yet even as his voice carried over the assembled saboteurs, he felt the weight of empty space in the crowds below. Familiar faces had vanished in recent weeks, and murmurs of mistrust tainted what remained of their unity. The fields of new schemes had perished under Winter''s frost. Many flocked to Mauricius''s cause in the wake of the bread he offered the poor. Even Lennox''s own men hesitated at striking the Merchant Lord now.


    The disappearance of fae coin presented Lennox with an open window. A brief opportunity to turn the people against the Merchant Lords before they realized it was his hands, and not theirs, which had sowed the fields they now reaped.


    “Tonight we claim our vengeance,” he declared. “Tonight it is them we cull.”


    He brought his hand down in a chopping motion as the strength of his aspect surged through him. He knew their strikes would not go unchallenged. Mauricius’s spies had whispered into too many ears. Many had turned coat.


    Incite.


    A crop of red flashed between the crowd.


    “Their walls are high, their guards are vigilant, but their greed blinds them to the truth. Tonight, we remind them who built this city. Tonight, we strike,” he said, the single word carrying over the gathered saboteurs. Torches burned in their hands, flickering shadows across their faces.


    A defiant cheer rose.


    A unified voice against the Merchant Lords.


    It rang quieter than he wished, and yet it rand loud enough.


    Then, the hiss of an arrow.


    The shaft plunged into his eye like a farmer’s spade into frozen earth. He clutched at the shaft as he staggered. Agony seared through his skull like fire spreading through dry fields.


    Ink fled from the page of the world as his Aspect sprung forth unbidden.


    Fade.


    The cheers of his allies morphed into confusion as their faces turned towards him and saw nothing. Lennox ignored the faltering fervour behind him. He ignored the arrow jutting from his eye. He ignored all else as he sprinted down the stairs and passed through the open door.


    Escape.


    He had to escape.


    All else was secondary.


    The Revolution would die without him to whisper it onwards.


    The Revolutionary caught a brief glimpse of a bedraggled red-headed woman in the distance. She''d raised her bow for another shot, but he''d already left, slipping away through the spaces between words on a page.


    Chaos bled across the square as a mob surged forward, shouting curses against the Merchant Lords. Mercenaries under Mauricius’s employ formed a wall of iron and shields, their captain barking orders. “Hold the line!” A hatchet carved through a boiled leather helm, tearing its way through the shrieking soldier like a knife through paper.


    Lennox moved through the labyrinth that was the streets of Mercantis like ink spilled across a page. “Stand down!” another mercenary roared, but the mob answered with shouts and stones. A woman brandished an empty box, waving it in fury. “This was supposed to tide me through Winter!” she screamed, before being shoved back by the butt of a spear.


    Lennox darted past another bloodstained wall, sparing not a glance for either the markings or posters as he ran. Then, a shout. “Don’t care if the street looks empty. That feisty redhead is paying us to blockade it regardless.” The Revolutionary slowed as he spotted mercenaries ahead, lining the street from one side to the other. The realization struck: seeing him was unnecessary if they could square him away in a trap.


    Lennox''s heart thundered, blood poured down his face as he turned down a narrow alley that trickled like a stream towards the shores. He stumbled as he almost ran head first into two armoured guards as he stopped onto an open street, then edged through a gap between them. The arrow in his eye pulsed with each step, a constant reminder of his one misstep. He rounded another corner, only for his progress to be stalled by a full blockade.


    A blockade that marched slowly towards him.


    Lennox spun and bolted.


    He reached a narrow bridge spanning one of Mercantis’s canals and found it blocked. A hoarse laugh bubbled at the back of his throat. Not one of these mercenaries had a clue where he stood, and yet still they surrounded him. Lennox glanced over his shoulder. Another group approached, their shadows long and sharp against the cobblestones.


    The ledger was almost balanced.


    But not yet.


    Lennox vaulted over the bridge’s side and plunged into the icy waters below. The icy chill of the river bit deeper than any blade as the currents swept him away to safety. The river spat him out what felt like hours later onto the rotten boards of a neglected dock.


    He let out a choking cough.


    The water had scouring away blood and grime but left the arrow lodged firmly in his eye. He clawed at the dirt with one hand as he tore the shaft free with the other. Blood welled in his mouth as he bit down on a scream.


    The world spun as he forced himself to his feet. Mercantis’s docks were a hive of activity, even this late into the night. He stumbled beneath his Aspect towards a battered galleon with Atalante''s flag hoisted proud into the sky.


    Lennox floated among the crew like a forgotten ghost. He slipped into the hold where barrels of dried fish and crates of salted meat lay stacked like forgotten tomes, and settled into a corner, wrapping himself in a ragged cloth to stave off the cold.


    An ember of rage nestled deep within the Revolutionary''s chest as the ship set off come dawn.


    Not a total defeat, but not a victory either.


    If fate saw fit to meddle with his plans, then fate could face the fires as well.


    <hr>


    The steps spiralled upward like the ambitions of a lesser Merchant Lord—narrow, uneven, and always threatening to collapse under pressure. Mauricius wiped sweat from his brow as he ascended without hesitation, his polished boots clinking against the stone like coins in one of his many coffers.


    Songbird fingered the bow over her shoulder as she followed behind him. Five months since she''d first arrived, and she was still garbed in that affront of a coat. Mauricius''s lips puckered at even the thought of it.


    The iron-bound wooden door to the Apprentice Salesman’s cell came into view ahead. Mauricius''s lips curled into a frown. The Merchant Prince didn''t appreciate coins left unaccounted for. The Revolutionary had escaped from Mercantis and Mauricius wished to determine if the Apprentice Salesman knew where he might''ve gone.


    “Appropriate, don’t you think?” Mauricius asked, his voice soft, almost conversational. He gestured toward the door with an elegant sweep of his hand. “The man who trapped so many others finds himself trapped in turn.”


    "There''s some humour in it," Songbird agreed, tilting her head and listening.


    He''d come to realize that she always listened. A useful trait, though it bordered on unnerving.


    The hinges creaked like an old merchant tallying debts long overdue as Mauricius opened the door. The room was sparse—no more than a cot, a desk, and a narrow window barred against escape. At least, it had been barred.


    Sheets tied into an impromptu rope swayed gently in the breeze.


    Mauricius stilled.


    “I believe,” he said, anger masked behind a mask of civility, “that we now have two rats to drown.”


    Songbird moved to the window. She leaned out, her bow already in hand. Mauricius joined her. Both of them peered into the distance. A faint figure in a white shirt scrambled across the tiled rooftops below. Mauricius''s lips puckered.


    The Apprentice Salesman.


    "Rat''s not gone yet," Songbird commented.


    “Your aim had best be as sharp as your tongue.” Mauricius murmured, stepping back to allow her space. “I would hate for this to end messily.”


    "Suppose I could tie up this loose end," she replied.


    She drew her bowstring back in one fluid motion and released.


    The arrow flew.


    The Apprentice Salesman stumbled mid-stride, the shaft buried itself between his shoulder blades.


    Another followed and carved its way through his skull.


    He let out an anguished wail and crumpled, then crawled forward as he fell to his knees.


    A third arrow carved through the trickster''s heart.


    Songbird lowered her bow.


    Mauricius folded his hands behind his back as he considered his next move. The vote was in. He''d claimed the title of Merchant Prince despite his promise of reform. His position was more tenuous than it had been before the murder of two Praesi sorcerers, but he wasn’t overly concerned. Reconstructions were already proceeding in the aftermath of the failed rebellion, and the sentiment among the population was more positive than not. It came as no surprise that Malicia had shown strong interest in doubling down on his token scheme. After all, it gave her more threads to wield in her hidden war against Cordelia Hasenbach.


    It would take some time to weed out the last rotten influence of the Revolution.


    Already, he’d had to uphold several insurance claims made against lost tokens. That wasn’t even the worst of it, either. Mauricius grimaced. Opening his coffers to the dregs of the street to combat the disappearance of fae coin felt like a betrayal of his own truths, and yet with time he''d reap the investment back in full.


    Besides, offers from both Procer and Praes had already found their way to his door.


    “You do make an impression,” Mauricius said. He turned to her. “It strikes me as curious, though—how a woman aligned with the House of Light reconciles her past with her present. They are, shall we say, at odds.”


    Songbird’s lips curled into a faint smile, though her eyes remained distant, fixed on the horizon.


    "Are they?" she challenged.


    "Come now," Mauricius replied. "There''s a stark difference between assassinations, courtly intrigue and service to the church."


    “What’s the difference between the truth and a Hallow Mask,” she whispered, “when the mask is all you’ve known?”