Pilt stood in front of the cracked mirror, adjusting the blue vest over his shirt. Yellow curls fell across his forehead. He pushed them back with one hand while examining his reflection with the critical eye of someone preparing for a performance.
Behind him, Mira sat at the desk they had claimed as their temporary headquarters. Papers spread before her in organized chaos. Black hair pulled back in a practical knot. Black eyes scanning columns of numbers with the systematic attention of someone who knew exactly where every copper belonged.
"The funds from the Alferheim deal cleared," she said without looking up. "We have enough capital to establish proper operations."
"That is... if we"
"Mm." Pilt hummed as if one word went inside one ear and left the other, he turned from the mirror and reached for the golden coat hanging on its hook. Then stopped. Reconsidered. Left it hanging.
Mira noticed.
"Blue vest today." She asked.
"Yup Small deals. Street level work."
"I can allocate resources toward whatever venture you have planned," Mira continued, making a note in the ledger. "Within reason. We are not swimming in gold yet."
"No need."
She looked up. "What?"
"I said no need. I will handle today with what I won last night."
"You won forty copper from a scorpion fight."
"Forty-eight actually. I made another bet on the way back. Man thought he could drink faster than me. He was wrong."
Mira set down her pen with the careful precision of someone restraining violence.
"You are planning to establish our presence in Port Vexis with forty-eight copper."
"Sounds about right."
"That is insane."
"That is a challenge." He grinned at her, bright and reckless. "Besides, what is the fun in using money we already have? Anyone can buy success. I prefer to earn it."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed with the weight of someone who had lost this argument a hundred times and would lose it a hundred more.
"Whatever suits you."
"That is the spirit." He grabbed a satchel and headed for the door. "Do not wait up. This might take a while."
"Pilt."
He stopped. Turned.
Her black eyes held something between concern and exasperation.
"If you get stabbed again, I am not carrying you to a doctor."
"Fair enough. I will crawl there myself."
He left before she could throw something.
The market district hummed with morning commerce. Vendors setting up stalls. Merchants arguing over prices. The smell of fresh bread competing with the smell of fish that was less fresh.
Pilt moved through it with purpose, stopping at a grain merchant whose stall overflowed with sacks of flour.
"How much for twenty sacks?"
The merchant looked him up and down. Saw youth. Saw the blue vest and a friendly yellow cloak that matched his hair colour. Saw someone he could overcharge.
"Five silver per sack. One gold total."
"That is robbery."
"That is business. Flour is scarce. Prices are high. Supply and demand."
Pilt leaned against the stall, casual. "Funny thing about supply and demand. I heard someone has been buying in bulk. Hoarding. Driving prices up artificially."
The merchant's expression shifted slightly. "I do not know what you are talking about."
"Sure you do not. But here is the thing. I need twenty sacks. I have forty-eight copper. And I am very good at making people regret trying to cheat me."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I am negotiating. There is a difference." Pilt pulled out his copper and began stacking it on the counter with deliberate care. "Here is my offer. Forty-eight copper for twenty sacks. You make a small profit. I get my flour. We both walk away happy."
"That is less than three copper per sack. I would be losing money."
"You would be making a customer. A customer who will remember that you were reasonable when others were not. A customer who might, in the future, bring you much larger business." He met the guy's eyes. "Or you can refuse. And I can spread word that you are part of the hoarding problem. See how that affects your sales."
The merchant's jaw clenched. "You are a bastard."
"Frequently. Do we have a deal?"
A long pause. Then the merchant grabbed the copper with more force than necessary.
"Fine. Twenty sacks. But if you come back expecting more discounts, I will throw you in the harbor myself."
"Fair enough." Pilt helped load the sacks onto a borrowed cart. "Pleasure doing business with you."
The slums looked different in morning light. Still broken. Still desperate. But the shadows were less threatening. People moved through streets with the slow determination of those who had not yet surrendered.
Pilt dragged the cart through narrow alleys, the wheels protesting against cobblestones that had not seen repair in decades.
"Flour!" he shouted. "Fresh flour! One copper per sack!"
Heads turned. Doors opened. People emerged from buildings like ghosts remembering they were alive.
"One copper?" an old man asked, suspicious. "That is too cheap."
"That is the price. Take it or leave it."
"What is wrong with it?"
"Nothing is wrong with it. I am just feeling generous today."
A woman pushed forward, coins clutched in her fist. "I will take two sacks."
"Done." Pilt handed them over and pocketed the copper.
More people came. A steady stream of customers who could not believe their luck but were not stupid enough to question it. Copper coins accumulated in his satchel. Flour sacks disappeared from the cart.
He had not lied to the merchant. He was making profit. Small profit. If he hadn't sold them for a single copper.
The cart was nearly empty when a small figure approached.
A girl. Maybe seven years old. Thin in the way that spoke of too many missed meals. Her dress was patched in three places. Her feet were bare despite the cold cobblestones.
She stopped in front of the cart and looked up at him with eyes that were too old for her face.
"How much?"
"One copper per sack."
She opened her palm. Three small coins sat there. It wasn't even copper. Something cheaper. The kind of currency that only worked in the poorest parts of the city.
"I only have this. But I can pay you back tomorrow. I promise."
Pilt looked at her. At the coins that were not enough. At the determination in her eyes that was worth more than gold.
He crouched down to her level.
"What is your name?"
"Senna."
"Senna. Do you know what the problem with credit is?"
She shook her head.
"The problem with credit is that it only works if both people trust each other. And I do not know you yet."
Her face fell. She started to turn away.
"However."
She stopped.
Pilt reached into his satchel and pulled out a sandwich he had packed that morning. Wrapped in cloth. Still fresh.
"I am hungry. But I made too much. Would you do me a favor and take this off my hands?"
He pressed the sandwich into her small hands. Then picked up one of the remaining flour sacks and set it on the ground beside her.
"And this sack is defective. See? It has a small tear. I cannot sell defective merchandise. Bad for my reputation. So I need someone to dispose of it for me."
Senna stared at the sandwich. At the flour sack. At him.
"But I cannot pay you back."
Pilt stood, brushing dust from his vest. His voice changed. Harder. Louder. Carrying to the people watching from windows and doorways.
"Cannot pay me back? Then what use are you? All you do is take without generating profit! This is a business, not a charity! If you cannot pay, then do not come asking for handouts!"
He pointed down the street.
"Now get out of here before I change my mind about being generous!"
The little girl, Senna clutched the sandwich and the flour sack and ran. But before she disappeared around a corner, she looked back. Her eyes held something that might have been gratitude. Or understanding. Or both.
Pilt watched her go. Then turned back to the cart, muttering loud enough for the audience to hear.
"Children. No respect for commerce. No understanding of profit margins."
He allowed himself a smile. Small. Private.
Then reached into his vest and pulled out the pendant.
The image inside was torn. Half of it missing. What remained showed a person's upper torso. The rest of the image where their face should have been were torn. But it still looked like something precious. Enough to keep.
The glass was cracked. Had been for years. He traced the crack with his thumb, following the line that severed head from body.
'You would have liked her. Senna. She has your determination.'
He tucked the pendant back into his vest.
"Alright. Let us go."
He grabbed the cart handles and continued through the slums, shouting about flour and profit margins and the terrible burden of being generous in a world that did not appreciate it.
He was three streets deeper into the slums when they appeared.
Five figures. Hooded. Moving with purpose. They wore robes marked with symbols that looked like flames trying to escape their own heat.
Ember Ascendant.
The people in the street saw them and disappeared. Doors slammed. Windows closed. In seconds, the street was empty except for Pilt and his cart and the five cultists who had decided this was their territory.
The leader stepped forward. Tall. Broad. A scar ran down his face that suggested someone had tried to kill him once and failed.
"You are the one selling flour."
Pilt straightened. Brushed dust from his vest. Smiled.
"That is me. Pilt. Merchant. Entrepreneur. Generous to a fault. Would you like to buy a sack? I am running low, but I could make an exception for new customers."
"You are disrupting our operations."
"Your operations?"
"This district pays tribute to us. Food. Coin. Respect. You undermine that when you sell cheap."
Pilt's smile did not change. But something in his eyes did.
"Tribute. What a pleasant word for extortion."
The scarred man's hand moved to his belt. A knife appeared. Long. Sharp. Well-maintained.
"You have two choices. Leave. Or bleed."
"Wow... Wow.. Now.. I do love choices." He gestured both of his hands up.
"They make life interesting." Pilt looked at the five cultists. Looked at the knife. Looked at his empty cart. "But you know what is funny?"
"What?"
"I have a third choice you did not mention."
"And what is that?"
Pilt's smile grew wider. More teeth. Less humor.
"I embarrass you so thoroughly that your cult becomes a joke. You leave these people alone. And I continue selling flour at whatever price I want."
The scarred man laughed. It sounded like rocks in a bucket.
"You are outnumbered."
"I am frequently outnumbered. It rarely works out the way people expect."
The knife moved. Fast. Aimed at Pilt's chest with the confidence of someone who had done this before.
Pilt was faster.
He grabbed the cart handle and swung. The cart hit the scarred man in the knees. The man went down hard, knife clattering across cobblestones.
The other four cultists rushed forward.
Pilt ducked under the first punch, grabbed a flour sack from the cart, and swung it like a weapon. It connected with someone's head in a explosion of white powder. The cultist staggered back, coughing, blinded.
The second cultist grabbed Pilt from behind. Arms locked around his chest. Pilt drove his heel down onto the cultist's foot. Once. Twice. The grip loosened. He twisted free and shoved the cultist into the third one. They tangled together and fell.
The fourth cultist produced a knife. Lunged.
Pilt sidestepped. Grabbed the cultist's wrist. Twisted. The knife fell. He swept the cultist's legs and sent him crashing to the ground.
The scarred man was getting back up, rage painted across his face.
Pilt grabbed the last flour sack and threw it. It hit the man in the chest, burst open, covered him in white powder.
Then Pilt ran.
Not away. Toward.
He grabbed the fallen knife, vaulted over the cart, and pressed the blade against the scarred man's throat before anyone could react.
"Here is how this works," Pilt said, breathing hard but steady. "You leave. You tell your cult that these streets are under new management. You find somewhere else to terrorize. Preferably somewhere far away. Maybe underwater. I hear the ocean is lovely this time of year."
The scarred man's eyes burned with fury. "You do not know what you have started."
"I know exactly what I have started. A war. Between your pathetic cult and me. And I promise you, I am much better at war than you think."
"Well an Economic warfare..."
He pressed the knife slightly harder. Not enough to cut. Just enough to promise.
"So. Do we understand each other?"
The scarred man said nothing for a long moment.
Then nodded. Once.
Pilt released him and stepped back, keeping the knife.
"Wonderful. Off you go then. And tell your friends that the Generous Scoundrel says hello."
The five cultists limped away, covered in flour, bleeding pride more than blood.
Pilt stood in the empty street, breathing hard, holding a knife he had no intention of keeping.
Then he laughed.
It echoed off broken buildings and disappeared into the fog.
Behind closed doors and shuttered windows, people watched. And listened. And began to believe that maybe, just maybe, someone had finally arrived who was crazy enough to fight back.
Pilt tucked the knife into his belt, grabbed his empty cart, and continued through the slums.
"Flour!" he shouted. "Fresh flour! Slightly used in self-defense! One copper per sack! Generous prices for generous people!"
His voice carried through narrow streets like a promise.