Momentum

Within the walls of the newly renovated estate, Steven stood on the balcony overlooking the training yard. The emblem is a silver hawk clutching an olive branch against a midnight blue field.

Below, Clinton barked orders at rows of recruits; each clang of sword against shield rang like a promise that Headow would not bend again.

Rosina approached, her steps crisp. She carried a folded parchment, her eyes sharp as ever.

"Progress in the market?" Steven asked without turning.

She flicked the parchment open. "Master Helmar agreed to supply grain on credit under our protection. He believes that our house rises again."

Steven arched an eyebrow. "We will ensure his caravans reach their destinations safely."

Clinton entered then, wiping sweat from his brow. "Training is underway, my lord. Twyford insists on pushing them harder, but I remind him we need endurance more than fury."

Steven chuckled. "A fine balance."

He gestured toward the nearby market. "Tell me, what of the townfolk? Do they accept us?"

Clinton darkened. "Many are wary, maybe fearful of change. But the younger ones and those who seek opportunity watch us with hopeful eyes."

Steven whirled. "Then our next move is to control the trade routes and produce unique crafts. Making wealth is our primary objective now, filling up the treasure house."

Rosina smiled, a rare softness in her eyes. "I have a word of a skilled merchant. He might be persuaded to aid our cause."

Steven nodded. "Good. Bring him here."

Later in the day...

"This is Master Frost," Rosina introduced. "A merchant with a reputation for balancing ledgers others deem impossible."

Frost inclined his head politely. "I hear the House of Talvace seeks to rebuild more than walls. A sound treasury is the foundation of any lasting power."

Steven nodded, folding his hands. "Exactly. We need to stabilize our resources, expand our trade, and ensure our coffers can support more than soldiers—we need influence."

Frost smiled thinly. "There is potential in Headow. With your banner rising, credit will follow. But it must be managed carefully."

Rosina tapped the parchment. "With the artisans we have gathered — ironworkers, wool dyers, glassblowers — we can create goods unique to this region. Not just grain and ore, but fine steel and colored glass."

Steven glinted. "Luxury for the nobles, essentials for the masses. They will line up to trade with us."

Frost laid out scrolls detailing trade routes, taxation policies, and investment plans. "If you allow me, I will oversee the establishment of a trade guild, a formal body to regulate commerce under your protection. This will signal stability and invite merchants from afar."

Steven nodded thoughtfully. "Do it. Secure trade agreements with neighboring towns and offer incentives for craftsmen to settle here."

"Consider also diversifying," Frost advised. "Textiles, metalworks, foodstuffs, each a thread in the tapestry of prosperity. The more varied the goods, the harder it is for rivals to undermine us."

The golden glow of late afternoon bathed the marketplace as Steven and Clinton walked side by side, their steps purposeful. 

Around them, the market bustled with new energy. Carts rolled in from nearby villages, laden with wool, grain, and ore. 

Ahead, a large pavilion stood draped in the newly designed banner of House Talvace against a blue sky. Inside, the most influential merchant families of Headow sat at a long table, nervously awaiting the young lord.

"I still don't trust half of them," Clinton muttered, adjusting the blade at his side.

"You don't need to," Steven replied, eyes scanning the sea of merchants. "You just need to be there when they try anything stupid."

He entered.

A rotund merchant with golden rings on every finger rose first. "Lord Steven," he began with a bow. "You honor us."

Steven returned the greetings and offered his plans. "I am forming the Headow Trade Accord that will operate under one unified charter. House Talvace will protect your caravans, stabilize taxes, and punish theft with military force."

"Sounds like a leash," grumbled a thin-faced trader with shifty eyes.

"It is a ladder," Steven corrected. "You can climb with me or get buried beneath the feet of those who do."

Rosina stepped forward with parchment. "These are the initial terms. Tax relief for partners, structured investment in infrastructure, and exclusive export rights to the border towns."

A hawk-nosed trader sneered, shifting uneasily. "And if we refuse this leash that you tie around our necks?"

Steven leaned forward. "Then your wagons burn on the roadside — not by my hand, but by those who despise your gold. Ride with me, and I will crush the bandits for you. Ride against me…"

He let the words hang.

A scrawny trader wiped the sweat from his brow. "But what if Baron Atkins calls this treason? What if he demands a cut?"

Steven's eyes darkened. "If Atkins wants blood for silver, let him come. Headow stands with House Talvace now."

One bold merchant, the young spice dealer, piped up, "If I open my books, what guarantee do I have you won't just squeeze me dry later?"

Steven leaned forward, voice dropping. "Because if I betray you, no one will stand with me when war comes. And war will come."

Silence settled like dusk.

Steven seized the moment. "You have all the changes happening in Headow. This is your chance to score big and increase your fortunes by two folds."

The fat merchant stroked his beard. "And what do you ask of us now?"

"Open your ledgers," Steven said calmly. "I want to know who owes whom, where the coin flows, and who's been hoarding grain. Transparency is the first step toward profit."

Finally, the rotund merchant touched his seal to the charter. One by one, the others followed, stamping their mark in the wax — a chorus of self-interest bound by fear and hope alike.

As the merchants filed out, Clinton muttered, "Half these rats will run squealing to Atkins by dawn."

Steven nodded. "That is why Beaver will follow their trail. Better a nest of snakes than a single unseen viper."

Then he turned to Rosina, "Within a year, this market will rival any in the region. And they will all remember whose banner made it possible."

She smiled. "You just turned Headow into a goldmine."

Late that night, as the hall emptied, Steven sat alone by the window. Outside, the market flickered with torchlight, wagons rolling in and out like lifeblood through veins.

He pressed his fingers together, mind running like a hawk on the wind.

'Coin, steel, loyalty. Will that be enough? Or will they abandon me when the sword hangs above?'

'If I fail here, I die twice.'

A few minutes later, Twyford entered into the study. Scrolls and parchment lay strewn across the table, diagrams of forges, grain mills, and coin stamps inked in black.

Steven didn't even look up."How many smiths did Rosina find?"

"Five," Twyford replied. "Two decent, one excellent, and the other two…" He shrugged. "Eager, at least."

Steven said. "Hire all of them. The eager ones will learn fast under pressure."

As they spoke, Clinton walked in with a scroll, "The builders finished the granary expansion. And the new roads to the southern village? Half done. Trade will double once they're complete."

"Good," Steven nodded. 

Beaver returned from his trip, hood dusted with road dirt, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "The mining families agreed. They will supply iron and rare ores at fixed rates… in exchange for protection from mountain bandits."

"Done," Steven said immediately. "Clinton, I want patrols there weekly."

As the day closed, the streets buzzed with energy—caravans unloading, artisans hammering, children chasing each other past newly painted shops.

Beside him, Rosina said quietly, "Headow is becoming something more."

Steven replied. "But we are not done."

The next day, the river bustled with renewed life. Barges floated lazily along the current, but the urgency in the air was unmistakable. 

Steven stood beside Rosina, Clinton, and a group of local traders. A thin mist hung in the air, but it couldn't hide the excitement buzzing through the crowd.

Rosina scanned the faces. "This many came? On such short notice?"

Clinton chuckled. "Mention trade and coin, and the merchants will come dancing."

Maren arrived draped in weathered silks, flanked by river traders and barge captains.

Steven locked his eyes on a tall, older man with a weathered face and a staff capped with brass. "That is Maren of the South Delta Guild, isn't it?"

Rosina nodded. "He controls the riverside markets all the way to Braywall. If he signs the pact, others will follow."

Steven stepped forward as the murmuring crowd quieted. "Headow is open for business."

Maren eyed Steven with a cunning glint. "Rumor says you promise gold and freedom. But I see the soldiers at the docks — freedom in chains, is it?"

Steven didn't flinch. "Freedom in order. Your goods flow freely. My men guard the routes. Your caravans double their profits if you sign the River Pact, and Headow becomes the hub for every trader from Braywall to the Eastern Hills."