Day 55.
The crater from the gunpowder test had been filled with snow. Rian was careful. He knew that sound traveled far in the silent North.
But he wasn't fast enough.
"Riders!" the lookout on the watchtower screamed. "Heavy Cavalry! Carrying the banner of the Baron of Frosthold!"
Rian stood on the wall. He saw them.
Ten knights on massive warhorses, armored in steel plate that gleamed in the winter sun. The leader wore a fur-lined cloak of red velvet—a stark contrast to the gray and white world of the North.
"Nobles," Varg spat on the ground. "They smell money."
"Hide the Wolves," Rian ordered quickly. "Hide Caelum. If they see an Elf or a Wolf Pack, they will brand us as heretics. Grom, cover the Water Wheel with a tarp. To them, we are just a struggling settlement, not a factory."
The Unwanted Guest
The gates opened. Rian stood in the courtyard, playing the role of the "Humble Exile."
The lead knight dismounted. He was tall, with a perfectly trimmed beard and eyes that looked at everything like it was for sale.
Sir Roderick, the Tax Collector for Baron Kaelen.
Rian waited for the chime.
[Ding! Daily Intelligence Report - Day 55]
[1. Personnel Analysis: Sir Roderick]
Role: The Baron's "Hound."
Mission: Investigate the "Thunder" heard two days ago. Rumors say you found an Ancient Magic Relic.
Motivation: Greed. He is skimming 30% of the taxes he collects for himself.
Weakness: He loves luxury but hates the cold. He is currently freezing in his armor.
"Lord Rian," Roderick said, his voice dripping with fake politeness. "Or should I say, the 'Exile of Blackiron'? You have been busy. The smoke from your chimney can be seen for miles."
"Survival takes effort, Sir Roderick," Rian bowed slightly. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"The Baron heard a noise," Roderick walked around, inspecting the serfs. "A loud boom. Like a dragon's roar. Some say... you are practicing forbidden magic."
Rian laughed. "Magic? Look around you, Sir Roderick. We are mining coal. Two days ago, a gas pocket exploded in the shaft. It nearly killed five men. We are lucky to be alive."
Roderick narrowed his eyes. "A gas explosion? Convenient."
He walked towards the warehouse. "And the smell? It smells like... baking bread. And flowers. Exiles are supposed to be starving, Rian. Yet your peasants look fat."
Roderick stopped in front of the warehouse door.
"Open it."
Varg stepped forward, his hand on his sword. Rian signaled him to stand down.
"Open it, Hance."
The doors opened.
Inside, there was no Gold. No Gunpowder.
Just stacks of Soap Bars and sacks of Barley Flour.
Roderick picked up a bar of soap. He sniffed it.
"What is this?"
"Soap, Sir Roderick. We boil fish oil and ash. It keeps the lice away."
Roderick dropped it with a sneer. "Peasant crafts. I expected gold. The Baron expects gold."
He turned to Rian, his face hardening.
"The annual tax for this territory is due. 500 Gold Coins."
The crowd gasped. 500 Gold was a fortune. It was impossible for a small village.
"I have no gold," Rian said calmly. "The mine only yields coal and iron."
"Then we will seize the fort," Roderick put his hand on his sword hilt. "The Baron can use this outpost as a stable."
Rian stepped closer. He lowered his voice so only Roderick could hear.
"I have no gold, Sir Roderick. But I have 1,000 bars of this soap."
Rian picked up the bar Roderick had dropped.
"In the Capital, the ladies pay 2 Gold Coins for a bar of 'Pure White Soap'. This isn't peasant craft. This is a luxury monopoly."
Roderick paused. He did the math. 1,000 bars x 2 Gold = 2,000 Gold.
"And?" Roderick whispered back.
"Take 500 bars," Rian said. "Tell the Baron we are poor and struggling. You sell the soap in the South. You keep the profit. I keep my fort."
Roderick looked at Rian. He saw the cold calculation in the exile's eyes. This wasn't a desperate plea; it was a business deal.
Roderick smiled. The kind of smile a shark gives before it eats.
"You are smarter than your father, Rian."
Roderick turned to his men.
"Load the wagons! This territory is worthless, just fish and mud. But we will take this... 'tribute' to the Baron."
The Departure
An hour later, the knights rode away, their saddlebags stuffed with soap. They left thinking they had robbed Rian.
Varg watched them go, spitting on the snow.
"You gave them half our stock, Boss. That soap was worth a fortune."
"I bought us time, Varg," Rian's face was grim. "Roderick is greedy. He will sell the soap and get rich. But next year? He will come back for more. And the year after that, the Baron will come himself."
Rian turned back to the fort.
"The masquerade is over. They know we have value. Next time, they won't bring wagons. They will bring an army."
He looked at Grom.
"Grom, stop making plows."
He looked at Elara.
"Elara, bring the Gunpowder."
He looked at the potters.
"I need 500 clay pots. Small ones. Easy to throw."
Rian picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a sketch on the wall.
A small clay sphere with a fuse.
The Grenade.
"We have one month before the snow melts and the armies can march," Rian declared. "By then, every man, woman, and child in this fort will know how to throw thunder."
[Ding! Quest Updated: Prepare for War]
[Time Remaining: 30 Days]
[Threat Level: High]
Rian looked at the horizon.
"Sir Roderick took the soap to clean himself. Next time, I'll give him something to dirty his armor."
End of Chapter 31