The Regressor and The Rising Storm - 05

The council chamber smelled of damp stone and burnt cedar. Evening light slanted through a narrow arrow slit, slicing the room into halves—one bathed in gold, the other swallowed by shadow. Kairus stood at the head of the scarred oak table, his father's empty chair a silent sentinel beside him. The elders had already taken their seats, their velvet doublets frayed at the cuffs, their faces etched with the kind of exhaustion that comes from decades of compromise. 

Elder Goran broke the silence first, his voice a whetstone dragged across steel. "Fifteen gold ingots." He slapped a ledger onto the table, its pages fluttering like wounded birds. "Per ingot of Valatium. The Verris' final offer." 

Murmurs rippled through the room. Elder Maris, his fingers stained with ink from tallying grain reports, leaned forward. "That's enough to buy seed for three harvests. Maybe repair the southern bridge." 

Kairus kept his hands flat on the table. He'd learned young that stillness unnerved men who expected boyish fidgets. "And what do the Verris want in return? Beyond the ore." 

Goran snorted. "Does it matter? Coin is coin. Winter won't care whose sigil is stamped on it." 

"It matters," Kairus said, "if they melt that Valatium into swords and march them back here." 

A log collapsed in the hearth, sending up a spray of embers. The elders shifted, their chairs creaking. 

Maris rubbed his temples. "The territorial wars ended five years ago, lad. The Verris have kept their borders." 

"Borders they stole," Kairus said softly. He reached into his satchel and tossed a bundle of parchment onto the table. The Verris seal glared up from the top page—a serpent coiled around a sword, stamped in blood-red wax. "Read it." 

Goran didn't move. Maris hesitated, then tugged the documents closer. His lips moved soundlessly as he scanned the lines. 

"Payment ledgers," Kairus said. "To the Blackthorn Mercenaries. For burning our granaries. Poisoning wells. Slaughtering patrols." 

Maris's hands trembled. "Where did you get these?" 

"Does it matter?" Kairus's tone was ice over a river. "The Verris bought our suffering once. You'd let them do it again?" 

Goran snatched the parchment, his face flushing. "Forged. Obviously. The Verris wouldn't be fool enough to put this in writing." 

"No," Kairus agreed. "But their quartermasters would. Greedy men keep receipts." 

The lie came smoothly. The ledgers *were* forged, painstakingly recreated from memories of future raids, but the seals were real—stolen last week from a Verris courier foolish enough to bed down in a Varkaine tavern. 

Maris sagged back in his chair. "If this is true…" 

"It is," Kairus said. "Sell them raw ore, and we arm our enemies. But finished goods—blades, armor—we control where they go. The Tristans need steel for their border forts. The Remes will pay well for ore refined into alchemical catalysts. And the Joshuas…" He paused, meeting each elder's gaze. "They'll beggar themselves for exclusivity." 

Goran barked a laugh. "The Joshuas? Their archmages haven't left their towers in a decade." 

"Exactly," Kairus said. "They're desperate to stay relevant. Valatium's magic conductivity could revolutionize their artifacts. They'll pay triple to keep it from their rivals." 

Maris drummed his fingers on the table. "And if the Verris retaliate?" 

"Let them." Kairus's voice didn't waver. "We'll have the Tristans' gold and the Remes' mages at our backs." 

A draft swept through the chamber, snuffing two of the candles. Shadows leapt across the walls like restless spirits. 

Goran shoved the ledgers away. "This is madness. You're a child playing at merchant lord. Your father would never—" 

"My father isn't here." The words hung in the air, sharp as a drawn blade. Kairus straightened, his palms pressing into the wood until his knuckles blanched. "But I am. And I'm the one who crawled through the mud and shale to find that Valatium. So unless you'd rather explain to the widows in the lower town why their children's futures were traded for Verris silver… we do this my way." 

Silence. 

Maris exhaled slowly. "The Remes envoy arrives tomorrow. I'll… draft the proposal." 

Goran surged to his feet, his chair screeching against stone. "This is a mistake. The Verris won't forget this insult." 

"Good." Kairus didn't blink. "Neither will I." 

The elder stormed out, his cloak billowing behind him. The others followed, their murmurs dissolving into the corridor's gloom. 

Alone, Kairus sank into his father's chair. The leather was cold, worn smooth in the shape of a man broader, heavier, *older* than he'd ever be. Outside, the wind moaned through the keep's battlements, carrying the distant clang of the smithy's hammer. Valatium being shaped into something new. Something *his*. 

A flicker at the edge of his vision—golden text, faint as a dying ember. 

[Persuasion Quest Complete.] 

[+150 XP.]

[Intelligence +5] 

[County Stability: 45% → 55%.] 

He closed his eyes. The system's notifications had terrified him at first, phantom words only he could see. Now they were a compass, a lifeline in the storm of his second chance. 

A knock shattered the silence. 

Ser Garrick leaned in, his armor smudged with soot. "Riders on the eastern ridge. Verris colors." 

Kairus's jaw tightened. "How many?" 

"A dozen. Scouts, most like." 

"Double the guard at the mines. Quietly. I don't want the elders panicking." 

Garrick hesitated. "They'll need more than swords if the Verris send mages." 

"They won't." Kairus stood, rolling the tension from his shoulders. "Not yet. The Verris want Valatium, not a war. They'll test us first. Thieves. Saboteurs." 

"And if they do more?" 

Kairus glanced at the hearth, where the Verris ledgers now curled into ash. "Then we'll remind them what happens to wolves who stalk a bear's den." 

The smithy's glow painted the snowdrifts crimson. Kairus stood at the edge of the crowd, hood drawn, watching as workers hauled raw Valatium into the forge. The ore's faint blue pulse lit their faces from below, giving them the look of spectres. 

A girl no older than Liora stumbled under a crate's weight. Kairus caught her elbow. 

"Easy." 

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed. "M'lord?" 

He took the crate. "Go home. Tell the others to rest—the next shift can handle this." 

"But Elder Goran said—" 

"Elder Goran doesn't command here tonight." 

She hesitated, then darted into the dark. 

The crate trembled in Kairus's arms. Valatium hummed against his chest, a vibration deeper than sound. He wondered if this was how his sister had felt before the Verris took her—power thrumming in her veins, beautiful and deadly. 

"You shouldn't be here." 

He turned. Bran, the mining chief, stood arms crossed, his eyepatch gleaming in the forge light. 

"Neither should you," Kairus said. "That shoulder's still bandaged." 

Bran spat. "A scratch. Unlike you, I don't faint at the sight of blood." 

A half-truth. Kairus had seen Bran collapse last week after a tunnel scrape, his face grey as midwinter sky. 

"The Verris have scouts on the ridge," Kairus said. 

Bran grunted. "Let them look. They'll find nothing but cold and regret." 

"If they come closer—" 

"We'll bury them in the mines." Bran's grin was all teeth. "Plenty of dark corners down there." 

Kairus almost smiled. Almost. 

A shout echoed from the ridge. Torchlight flickered—Varkaine guards driving the Verris riders back. 

Bran squinted. "Persistent bastards." 

"They'll keep coming," Kairus said. 

"Then we'll keep sending them home in pieces." 

The words should have chilled him. Instead, they kindled a fire in his chest. 

[New Sub-Quest: "Keep the Enemies Away."] 

[Reward: +200 XP. County Stability +15%.] 

He hefted the crate. "Come on. Let's get this to the forge." 

Bran fell into step beside him. "You're a strange one, Lord Kairus." 

"So I've been told." 

"Strange… but not wrong." 

High above, the stars wheeled in their endless dance. Somewhere among them, Kairus knew, the Star-Eater watched. 

And smiled.