Trade

Dawn barely brushed the sky with gold when Hiral, once again donning the persona of the frail envoy Jiral, stepped out of the modest building nestled between Ro's merchant giants. 

Today, the silk of his robe was slightly more ornate, the red threading catching the light just so—an intentional touch. 

After all, he was going to meet a predator in their lair, and even a mouse had to gleam when paraded before a hawk.

The Guild of Trade, a sprawling marble-pillared estate carved in the heart of the merchant quarter, was Ro's true heartbeat. 

Not the palace. 

Not the military. 

But here—where the contracts inked could change the fate of nations.

Jiral was met with polite contempt. 

From the guards to the clerks, he was escorted with the patience one reserves for a dying man, or a particularly dim noble's unwanted pet.

Until he entered the guild master's office.

The chamber was large, but strangely intimate—like a bear trap carved into oak and velvet. 

A desk carved from obsidian wood sat under massive glass windows, behind which stood a figure known only by whisper and signature:

Master Fin, Guildmaster of the Central Trade.

His gaze was cold, sharp as a contract line, and calculating.

"Envoy Jiral," Fin greeted, voice smooth, untouched by respect or disdain. "We don't often have the honor of sickly diplomats bearing bright silks and vague ambitions." 

"And I don't often have the pleasure of dealing with men so… sharp, their smiles cut before their words do," Hiral returned gently, with a low, raspy chuckle. "But I come in peace, Master Fin. Trade peace."

Fin raised a brow, gesturing Hiral to sit.

What followed was not a conversation but a duel—one fought not with blades but with precision-tuned courtesies, weaponized silences, and smiles stretched too thin to be mistaken for warmth.

Hiral played the part of the curious foreign envoy with masterful restraint.

Wide-eyed, soft-spoken, ever so slightly out of step.

He asked questions so basic they became suspicious: the nature of tariffs, the movement of goods, local inflation—all things a true merchant would already know.

But his missteps were deliberate, like a dancer tripping just enough to lead his partner into revealing their rhythm.

Fin smiled through it all, sharp and polished. His voice was smooth, but his gaze remained still—too still. He was reading Hiral, not listening to him.

Then Hiral made his move.

"There's a tribe," he said, almost offhandedly, reaching into a lacquered box etched with eastern script. From within, he slid out a single strand of silk—so fine it seemed to shimmer with moonlight. "Hidden near the canyon veins just beyond the disputed frontier. Technically west. Functionally… wild. No map dares name them. But they weave silk unlike anything the court has ever seen. Like dreams spun under stars."

He set the thread down between them like a blade on a negotiation table.

Fin did not touch it immediately. He looked at Hiral first—long, deliberate. Then, slowly, he picked up the strand.

"You want to offer me a ghost trail," he said. "A passage carved through lands our armies don't even pretend to control. From a people no census dares list. To traffic goods the king has yet to tax."

Hiral blinked innocently. "A venture that can open new vaults of gold," he murmured, "Silk so grand, so rare, worthy of the risks. Wasn't the trade guild known for its motto 'nothing ventured, nothing gained'?"

Fin snorted then reclined in his chair, the silk glinting between his fingers. His body seemed relaxed, but his jaw was locked too tight for comfort. He was calculating—profits, logistics, betrayals, blood.

"You're not as dull as you pretend."

"Well, dull I may not be, but certainly I'm frail," Hiral said gently, his expression unreadable save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing changes the fact that I am what I appear to be—a wilting envoy with a cough, and a fading relevance. Chasing fading dreams... to attest for my final moments, perhaps."

The silence between them was tense, but not empty.

It brimmed with unspoken understandings.

If this venture succeeded, it would make them both richer—dangerously so. If it failed, there would be questions.

Allegiances would be reexamined. Heads, perhaps, would roll.

Fin finally folded the silk with deliberate care, sliding it into a hidden compartment of his coat.

"Done," he said, almost lazily. "But if this 'tribe' vanishes into mist, if no caravan ever crosses that ghost path…" His eyes glinted. "I'll make sure your memory is useful in other ways."

"If I'm still breathing when the caravans arrive," Hiral replied, voice raw with some real sickness or a very convincing imitation, "I'll bow to your foresight. If not…" He let the words drift into the space between them like incense. "Then let the West inherit dreams woven of silk and shadows."

Fin's smile was all surface. "Let's hope your ghosts know how to negotiate."

****

Hours later, as the sun dipped behind the copper-spined roofs of Ro, Hiral walked at a measured pace down the winding stone path that led from the Guildhouse.

Behind his veil, his smile was subtle, but resolute.

That was a challenge, he thought. And Ro doesn't just produce fools in polished boots—it breeds foxes wrapped in brocade, claws hidden in law and ledger.

He had come seeking a foothold—just enough leverage to begin a discreet trade that would, in time, carry jade and diamond down from the eastern ranges.

That had been the plan.

A quiet path to be used when the time came.

But what he had found was something far more complex—and far more dangerous.

Ro did not rest on the spine of its monarchy.

If the crown crumbled tomorrow, the Guilds would not weep.

They would reorganize, reshuffle alliances, and carry on—perhaps even more efficiently. The true engine of this kingdom was not its court, but its people.

Its merchants, its builders, its guildmasters with their quick minds and quicker hands. The crown did not lead the nation so much as it floated above it, ornamental and optional.

This is a kingdom propelled not by decree, but by conviction. And that… is far harder to tame.

He paused briefly beneath a cypress arch, watching golden light spill across the city below. In other lands, destabilizing the throne would be enough.

A few incisions—clever, precise—and the whole body would bleed out. But here?

A nation like this does not die from the head. It has too many limbs.

Infiltration here would require more than influence at court or pressure on a handful of aristocrats.

Ro's true strength lay in its decentralization. Its citizens were not merely loyal—they were invested.

That made them unpredictable. Unbending. The type to hide a rebel in their cellar and outmaneuver an empire through sheer stubborn pragmatism.

If riled, Hiral mused, this citizenry becomes a sword turned inward—self-cleansing, self-protecting. And if charmed? They become a force no crown could ever fully control.

He admired it, quietly. It reminded him of the east, before the consolidation, when his own people had still believed in the power of the common hand.

No wonder Alexis walks among them with ease, Hiral thought, his mind drifting again. He isn't their shield. He's their reflection. A man of blood and bone, clothed in honor that wasn't handed down but carved from trial. No crown weighs on him because he carries something heavier: their trust.

His thoughts, unbidden, returned to the knight on the cliff.

The quiet man with eyes like stormlight. 

A blade honed by solitude, Hiral thought. And as difficult to read as a silent sea.

Back at the residence, the lamps were already lit, casting amber light across the scrollwork walls.

Hiral sat at his low writing table, robes unfastened, veil draped aside. His hand moved fluidly over parchment.

The first letter was encoded—an update to Seran, outlining the potential trade corridor and the far more urgent observation: Ro's power could not be decapitated. It had too many roots. The crown was not the kingdom. It was merely its ornament.

The second scroll was less precise—drafted in softer ink, still half-formed.

A tentative sketch of a revised infiltration strategy.

One that would require patience.

Respect.

The subtle courting of guilds and city heads, the slow weaving of alliances not through dominance, but mutual need.

He did not enjoy altering plans. But adaptability was a kind of weapon. And he would rather bend now than snap later.

A knock. His attendant entered with tea—white lotus and crushed pear—and another, quieter offering: word from the market stalls.

"The envoy with moon-veiled eyes and a merchant's tongue," they were calling him. "The one the Guildmaster shook hands with, like an equal."

Hiral sipped his tea, letting the warmth linger on his tongue. A soft smile touched his lips, slow and unreadable.

So the whispers begin. Good. Let them ripple outward.

And in his mind, the map of Ro rearranged itself—not as territories to claim, but as minds to win, thread by thread, until the tapestry belonged to him.