Tailor tax evasion?

Cypher watched through a window as Gunter left Drake's estate. Not that Drake was alive to call it his anymore - so now, it was his

Outside, Gunter and a few soldiers loaded wooden crates into their carriages. The dull clatter of metal and shifting goods filled the air as they worked with practiced discipline. Soon, they climbed into their seats, the horses snorting in anticipation before galloping down the dirt road. Within moments, the carriages were swallowed by the distance, vanishing beyond the towering stone walls that lined the estate's perimeter.

Finally, Cypher released a sigh.

He was in Drake's personal chamber, located on the very top floor. Of course, all unnecessary traces of the former owner had been stripped away. The room no longer smelled of Drake's heavy scent, nor did it carry any lingering sense of the man's presence. Cypher had molded it into something that better suited his tastes. Simple and efficient, within much waste.

In the center, an elegant round oak table stood solitary, accompanied by a single chair. A personal space meant for him alone. The neatly made king-sized bed rested against the far wall, its sheets freshly stripped away by Luther at Cypher's request. Sleeping on another's used bedding disgusted him. Just as he wouldn't wear another man's clothes, he wouldn't let his skin touch the filth of another's life.

Yet, remnants of Drake's old life still clung to the room. The wallpaper, for instance - black vinyl-like patterns of unblinking eyes lined the walls, a testament to his worship of Endo. It was unsettling, but Cypher hadn't yet decided whether to remove it.

Then, there was the ceiling.

Arched and curved, it bore a massive painted map of Valaria, stretching across its entirety. At first glance, it was beautiful. An artistic masterpiece capturing the vastness of the land. But upon closer inspection, it told a different story. Scarred landscapes, ruined territories, and the ever-present Deadlands that cut the continent in two. The painting was a reflection of history's wounds, laid bare in muted, aged colors.

Still, Cypher took a moment to study it in detail.

"The Deadlands split the continent, dividing the Empire and Kingdom completely. I know this already," he muttered under his breath, eyes following the delicate brushstrokes. "The seas surround the land, perfect for coastal trade. That must be Boreal City."

His gaze fixated on a small mark near the Empire's coastline - Boreal City, a settlement roughly half the size of Thorn. Positioned at the empire's farthest edge, it seemed almost insignificant at first glance. Yet, its location made it a crucial trading hub, comfortably nestled within imperial territory. From Cyphers guess, this would be the perfect position for a navy base, considering it pushed against the sea.

He traced the thin, black lines crisscrossing the empire. Obsidian networks connecting the dragon arrays, no doubt, paths for teleportation. Interestingly enough, some of these lines seemed to bury into the deadlands, though they faded as the crossed the border.

Other than that their were around ninety other cities dotted around the land, with Thorn being the closest to the borders of the deadlands while the others sat behind it, as if Thorn was an arragont vanguard ready to face attack. Strange, but understandable considering the Emporor and all the high ranked weavers frequenter here.

By contrast, the kingdom's lands looked barren on the map. Only a handful of cities were marked - primarily the capital, Holvana, and its major port settlements. The rest of the kingdom was left vague, devoid of fine detail.

But one part of the map stood out the most.

The blank spots.

Unlike the kingdoms undertailed lands, it appeared that some Area's, the artist hadn't even been bothered to paint over. These were namely in the seas sorrounding the continent, some areas in the deadlands and most noticeably at them centre of the deadlands in a circular mountain range. The mountains encircled an empty space as if to protect the world from it.

Cypher narrowed his eyes.

He stared for a long moment before finally looking away. Settling into the chair beside the oak table, his fingers brushed against the parchment stacked before him. Business records. Tax documentation. Now that he was a Baron, such paperwork was inevitable. These numbers and ledgers dictated the flow of wealth, and thus, power.

He read through them methodically, flipping page after page.

For the most part, everything seemed in order. A few merchants had been a little late with payments, but nothing significant enough to be an issue.

That is, until the final record.

Cypher's eyes sharpened.

"The tailor's shop…" he murmured, tapping his fingers against the parchment. "Vincent's Garments hasn't delivered a single payment since I last visited."

Not once.

And the exact date of their last recorded payment? The very day he had stepped into their store.

Leaning back, he rested his chin against his knuckles in thought.

"I should check on them." His voice was calm, yet there was a weight to it. "If I make an example out of them, it will reduce the likelihood of others trying the same."

He remained in his chair for a while longer, considering his next steps. From what he had gathered, Drake's financial situation had been… lacking. It wasn't that he couldn't generate wealth, but rather, he had been too lenient. The current merchant tax was only eight percent—a number far too generous for people who had no means to resist taxation.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

Twenty percent.

If they earned one gold coin a month, he would take twenty silver. And considering he controlled multiple businesses, that wealth would accumulate rapidly.

But that was a plan for later.

For now, Cypher had other matters to attend to.

He rose from his chair, methodically buttoning his black long-sleeved shirt. Over it, he pulled on his deacon's robe, the white fabric flowing neatly around him. Finally, his high-collared coat rested atop it all, securing his layered attire.

The last touch came in the form of his mask.

Long-healed cracks lined its surface, remnants of past wear. The metallic clasps at the back of his head locked into place with a satisfying click, fastening the mask securely.

Without hesitation, he strode out of the room.

---

The streets bustled with life. Vendors shouted over one another, advertising their wares - fresh fish, forged swords, exotic tobaccos. The air was thick with the mingling scents of salt, sweat, and cooking spices.

Discussions echoed around him bounced around the streets front well dressed men and woman.

"Have you heard of the Barons death?" A finely draped woman spoke to a man besides her.

"It's a sad affair, I remember he was kind to the merchants. I hope the new Baron is the same.

Multiple of such conversations worked their way through the gatherings and different groups.

Cypher was in the middle class district now.

Despite the crowd, an invisible boundary seemed to form around him. Wherever he walked, people instinctively gave way, as if repelled by some unnoticeable force. It was subtle, but as ever present as a ripple in the natural flow of movement, like a stone lodged in the current of a rushing stream.

Regardless, eventually, he arrived at his destination.

Vincent's Garments. The store he had visited when he first arrived.

But as he looked upon it's exterior, Something seemed wrong.

The once-polished wooden sign above the shop was now peeling, its oak edges beginning to rot. Through the front windows, the interior was swallowed in darkness, no light spilling from within.

Cypher frowned. A store closing early was one thing. But in the middle of the day? On a weekend? Unheard of.

Usually this would be the best time to sell any stock orgokds they had. Every other merchant had their stores open, and out of necessity, because if they didn't they would quickly go out of business. The empire was almost always in a constant state of war, so they did not need empty stores that wasted people's time

His gloved hand reached for the door handle. A small metal sign hung on the inside, its lettering clear: CLOSED.

Cypher curled his fingers around the handle, and as he expected, it was firmly locked shut.

"This won't do…" he muttered.

Gripping the handle firmly, he gave a sharp tug. The metal mechanism snapped with ease, the door groaning open on weakened hinges.

A foul gust of air rushed out to greet him.

It was the unmistakable scent of rot.

Thick, putrid, and unmistakable. The scent of decayed flesh.

It clung to the air like an invisible fog, seeping into the fabric of his coat. It was the same smell he had encountered deep within the dragon core's cavern. The unmistakable stench of something long dead.

He hesitated for only a moment, listening. Only it was Silent. Far to quiet for his liking.

His fingers instinctively curled around the hilt of his dagger, twirling it once between his fingers before settling into a steady grip.

Just because he heard nothing didn't mean danger wasn't present. No, the smell alone made it so.

His senses had been deceived before. Thanks too prince Alexander, he wouldn't allow himself to be caught off guard so easily again.

"Is anyone inside? Come out at once or face immediate execution!" Cypher shouted, only to receive his own voice bouncing back through the echoing walls of the shop.