00:40 a.m. - At Infirmary Narthex, High Temple, Dawnspire.
Cold lamp-smoke hangs low. The stone sweats.
Marcelline jerks awake on a cot, wrists banded with faint red where ward‑silk burned. A white‑cloaked assistant kneels close, eyes wide, voice held down hard.
Acolyte Rhea (urgent whisper): "High Priestess, listen. News runs like fire. The nave… they're calling it a massacre — a demon, a spy from Belmara. People blame us. The Crown pulls distance. The Queen has ordered the Temple stripped of its tithes and pageantry: ledgers seized, processions banned, priests sent to feed at the public kettles with no rites and no lists — and past heresy cases reopened under royal review."
Marcelline touches the marks on her wrists, then looks past Rhea as if she sees a bright thing no one else can.
Marcelline (soft, rapt): "He stood in the room like a clean blade. He touched the foul thing and it came apart like bad wax."
Rhea blinks.
Acolyte Rhea (confused): "Who?"
Marcelline's mouth curves. A strange light lives in it.
Marcelline (low, joyous): "The Veiled One. Not a god—no. A sign. He mocked the devil like it was a dull child. He was mercy with teeth."
She starts to laugh—quiet at first, then too loud for an infirmary. Rhea flinches, glances at the door, then leans closer.
Acolyte Rhea (hushed, fast): "High Priestess, please. The elders meet already. They argue a Regency of the Crozier. They hunt a new Pope. Names move fast."
Marcelline sits straighter and folds pain back behind discipline. She turns her hand palm up, the faint mark of a stag's hoof sits there like a warm answer that only she feels.
Marcelline (measured): "List the blows."
Acolyte Rhea (counting fingers): "One: the nave is blood. Two: the devil's infiltration makes the street say the Temple is hollow. Three: the King's captain sticks ward chalk in our quarter and refuses our ledgers. Four: merchants—most—keep quiet… because they feed on us. Kestrel, Ironhand's circle… all silent. Only Technologia talks back, they cut us dead in the street."
Marcelline's laugh dies. Her eyes turn sharp.
Marcelline (flat): "Good. Better truth than poison sugar."
Acolyte Rhea (swallows): "There is more. Word runs that the High Temple's treasury is untouched. The poor spit. They call us hoarders. And… men saw the Pope turn wrong. They whisper Belmara inside our walls."
Marcelline closes her eyes, then opens them clear.
Marcelline (public sermon‑calm): "Measure true. Share fire. Keep dawn. We cleanse, we do not cling. Send edicts: no lists at doors. Priests at pots. Bless the doorframes where the small sleep. Quiet corridors—no theatre. If a stranger laughs with tired warmth, bring me that laugh."
Rhea looks at her hands.
Acolyte Rhea (small): "Will they obey?"
Marcelline lifts her chin.
Marcelline (cold judicial): "Names, then deeds, then the account of harm—after that, I cut. The elders will choose a crozier puppet. I will not kneel to their panic."
She stares past Rhea again, the light back in her face.
Marcelline (private devotion‑soft): "Your voice is enough; I do not require Your face."
Rhea touches her sleeve.
Acolyte Rhea (careful): "High Priestess, the Crown and Temple walk to a break. If we push, the King answers with iron."
Marcelline's mouth softens, terrifying and tender at once.
Marcelline (protective‑possessive): "This path belongs to Him. Step aside, or be counted among the obstacles."
Acolyte Rhea (quick): "They search for a new pope by noon."
Marcelline lifts her palm; the invisible candle she keeps there burns bright to her alone.
Marcelline (parting whisper): "Clean the way."
09:30 a.m. - At Merchant Guild Hall, Dawnspire.
The boardroom hums with angry breath. Baldric Ironhand plants both fists on the table until the wood creaks. Varena Kestrel sits lean and straight, gloves folded, eyes unreadable. A half dozen guild clerks crowd the wall, ink on their cuffs. Saren stands near the door, rope‑scarred glove in hand, gaze fixed on the floor.
Ryan takes the rear bench beside Aidan, hood up. The king's seal ribbon dangles from a leather tube in Aidan's fist.
(Ryan thinks): (No theatrics. Cut clean.)
Aidan lifts the tube, tilts it like a gavel.
Aidan (plain): "Assignment is filed. Stoneveil's shop and ledgers transfer to Technologia for 1 gold under Guild law. Odrik leaves before sunup. This is done."
Baldric's brows knot. His voice turns iron.
Baldric (low burn): "And who might you be to barge into our meeting with that thin paper and a coin?"
Aidan doesn't blink.
Aidan (level): "A man with the King's writ and the board's stamp."
He unrolls the second parchment. The royal sign shines dark in the ash light.
Crown Herald (at the door, clear): "By order of King Aldric Aurelthorn: Technologia Company is exempt from Guild meddling while under war contract. Dues do not bind them. Interference with Crown supply draws chains."
Baldric's jaw shifts once. Varena's eyes flick to the seal, then to Ryan's sleeve, then away.
Varena (calm): "You want my ear? Prove that this innovation holds value beyond mere words."
Aidan turns the second page so the room can see the numbers—crossbow counts, nib lots, delivery routes, escorts inked.
Aidan (short): "Value is racks filled by dusk and orders met before frost."
Baldric points a thick finger at the parchment where Odrik's neat ruin sits.
Baldric (hard): "You flipped a house with one coin and a threat of audits. Risk is an entrepreneur's folly; grasping for novelty is no way to ensure stability."
Ryan leans forward, voice mild.
Ryan (plain): "Stability is dead streets and burned roofs. We choose useful. Crossbows feed the line. Soap keeps hands. Paper soon. You want stability? Eat."
Baldric snorts.
Baldric (scorn): "Partnerships demand trust—and trust is built on results, not promises."
Aidan taps the writ.
Aidan (flat): "Results are ordered. Two hundred per day. The King seals that."
Varena's glove twitches once. She rubs the small black stone on her ring with a thumb.
Varena (businesslike): "Two options: you give me exclusivity, or I walk. Both are expensive."
Ryan lets the room breathe in the silence. Then he shakes his head once.
Ryan (quiet): "No exclusives. Public ledger. Warranty you can read. We stand where everyone can see us."
Varena's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Varena (threatening): "Make this worth my time, or I'll find someone who will."
Aidan lifts the tube again and nods at the herald.
Crown Herald (firm): "One more line. Any guild that blocks Technologia carts in wartime answers at the castle gate. No lists. No street dues. The Crown watches."
Saren shifts. His eyes flick toward Ryan, then drop. Baldric catches it.
Baldric (sharp): "You. Boy. Speak."
Saren's mouth works. He looks at the rope burn, at Ryan's hood, at the floor again.
Saren (thin): "I sweep. I stamp. I load. I keep my head down. That's all."
Baldric grunts. He turns back to Aidan.
Baldric (cold): "You cut our partner and ask us to clap. Trade is wet rope now. The road slips under our hand. Aurelthorn sits between fires. You paint your walls and think the flame won't find you."
Aidan meets his eyes and doesn't move.
Aidan (plain): "We put names on pay slips, not knives in alleys. You want in—bring clean coin. You want out—stand clear."
Varena looks at the window where ash smears the light.
Varena (soft, to herself): "The air tastes like a season that won't change."
Ryan watches her measure the risk and bank it for later.
(Ryan thinks): (She pivots or she poisons. Both I can handle if the books stay honest.)
Baldric straightens his cloak, pride tightened like a belt.
Baldric (final): "Very well. The Guild will not cross a royal writ. But do not mistake restraint for surrender. When the bell stops ringing, we tally again."
Aidan nods once.
Aidan (short): "We'll be easy to find. We work in daylight."
The herald rolls the writ. The room exhales. Varena rises.
Varena (charming): "You have an interesting product, Mr Mercer. I hope you prefer clean deals."
Ryan does not give her the smile she looks for.
Ryan (flat): "I prefer bread on the bench and rules on the board."
Varena's eyes flicker. She leaves without hurry. Baldric lingers one beat, then follows, cloak heavy, mind already weighing a new board with new rules and fewer friends.
Saren stays in the doorway like a shadow someone forgot to move.
Saren (low, to Ryan): "You walk loud for a man no one can name."
Ryan looks at the rope scar and nods once.
Ryan (even): "Walk straighter. No more night work."
Saren swallows and slips out.
(Ryan thinks): (Shock lands. The Guild holds its breath. Good. Breathe on the ones who build, not the ones who bleed you.)
11:00 a.m. - At Floor Office, Technologia, Dawnspire.
Ash light bleeds through the glass. The steam line ticks. A board on the wall holds names and routes, chalk sharp and honest.
Aidan shuts the door with his heel and drops the folio on the desk.
Aidan (measured): "Mercer."
Ryan leans on the sill, hands in his pockets, shoulders tired but set.
Ryan (plain): "We call it square? You keep CEO. Dawnspire is yours. I take Frosthaven. The shadow parts. Counterfeit hunts. Quiet carriage routes. Ink traps. Off‑book R&D. No one knows but us."
Aidan watches him for a long breath, then nods.
Aidan (quiet): "I reconcile. Elric Mercer, heir of the line. I keep the daylight. You run the alleys. If the board asks, there is no alley."
Ryan taps the window with a knuckle.
Ryan (philosophical/Thoughtful): "Next thing. We split a line. Paper. We build it away from nibs, but beside them. Own pulp, own press. Rag in, sheet out. No calfskin. Less fire. Better letters."
Aidan folds his arms.
Aidan (practical): "You had that in your pocket from the start."
Ryan nods.
Ryan (soft): "I did, but the city was on fire. Now we can think."
Aidan pulls a scrap and a charcoal. He draws boxes and arrows as Ryan talks.
Ryan (careful): "Pieces: rag buy‑back scheme—pay coppers a pound, no haggling. Sorting table—white, grey, dyed. Lime soaks, water wheel beaters, deckle frames. Felt stacks for couching. Drying loft with slats and warm air, not flame. Sizing from boiled scraps of hide we already get, then less as we learn alum. Stamp each ream with a guild mark we own, not theirs."
Aidan glances up.
Aidan (testing): "Why paper now, in a war?"
Ryan lifts a hand and ticks points.
Ryan (plain): "One: nibs need good sheets to prove their worth. Two: the Crown needs orders written fast and dry. Three: vellum is slow, cruel, and burns too easy. Four: cleaner streets—rag out is rot reduced. Five: knowledge sticks to pages. People read; people learn. That makes the next war smaller."
Aidan's mouth twitches—a near‑smile, rare and quick.
Aidan (short): "You don't make toys. You make tools."
Ryan taps the glass again.
Ryan (soft): "We don't make anything without a reason. Everything we make lowers pain, saves time, or teaches. If it doesn't, we don't build it."
Aidan nods once, then points with the charcoal.
Aidan (decisive): "Lines. Daylight—mine. Shadow—yours. Dawnspire—mine. Frosthaven—yours. Paper—together, but ledgered as a second house so audits don't choke the forge."
Ryan smiles, tired and real.
Ryan (encouraging/Optimistic): "We'll figure this out. Every impossible problem is just a puzzle waiting for the right algorithm."
Aidan snorts.
Aidan (dry): "I have no idea what half your words mean, but the shop moves when you speak."
Ryan lifts two fingers.
Ryan (careful): "Conditions. One: no chains. Pay in coin. Two: feed the small first. Three: names on slips, not promises in mouths. Four: waste water from the vats goes to settling pits, not the river. The city learns to breathe better."
Aidan writes the four lines like law.
Aidan (firm): "Done."
He looks up.
Aidan (measured): "What do you want from me now?"
Ryan leans his head against the cold pane and looks down at the yard where a little girl eats bread on a step and an old porter stamps a slip with neat pride.
(Ryan thinks): (Keep him steady. Keep me honest.)
Ryan turns.
Ryan (plain): "Hire a rag‑master with clean hands. Lease a loft near water and wind. Send word to Frosthaven—I want the shadow door there under my key by week's end. And tell Sariel to start drawing deckle frames. Simple. Square corners. No show."
Aidan lifts the board eraser, cleans a space, and writes: PAPER LINE — CLEAN WATER, CLEAN HANDS, CLEAN LEDGER.
Aidan looks back to Ryan.
Aidan (quiet): "You're not changing the work much."
Ryan shrugs.
Ryan (soft): "You're good at the front. I don't need a crown. I need a door that opens when I push."
They stand in the ash light and listen to the engine tick. Outside, the yard starts its noon rhythm—bowls, chalk, stamps, a laugh that sounds like a stitch pulled through clean cloth.
Aidan reaches for the latch.
Aidan (decisive): "Back to it, then."
Ryan's fingers press the sill, a small vow.
(Ryan thinks): (Paper first. Proof next. No altars. No lists. Build the thing that holds the line.)