The wind blew sharp and dry through the Hornsfall region, where the land was streaked with dead veins of earth and the sky always seemed one storm short of collapse. Nozgar City had been carved into this poison-blighted region like a wound refusing to close, its stone buildings blackened with old soot, its mines always bleeding.
Inside the cracked-stone keep of House Mitis, the air was thick with the scent of ore, ash, and simmering resentment.
"So, what do you want? Merchant," growled Lord Gorvan Mitis, leaning back in his chair like a bear watching a fly.
Fornos Dag smiled, unoffended. "Why the hostility, Lord Mitis? I come only to offer a venture."
"You may wear silk and carry wine, but you reek of ambition," Gorvan replied, his eyes sharp beneath his gray brows. "I know that a long conversation is your biggest weapon. So I'll be short: you're conniving. Too conniving."
Fornos steepled his fingers and tilted his head slightly, undeterred. "I am. But right now, I have something you want."
Gorvan's fingers drummed once on the stone table. "What?"
"A pathway," Fornos said, voice level. "A pathway to retake your birthright."
The nobleman's knuckles went still.
"Continue."
Fornos leaned forward, keeping his tone even. "House Mitis and House Zatack were once a single family. Until your father lost the succession war, and your uncle—now Lord Zatack—claimed the fertile highlands. He kept the rivers, the farmland, the green valleys. And your family was banished to this poisoned hell, where you survive only through mineral exports."
"I know my own history, boy."
"But history doesn't have to stay buried," Fornos replied smoothly. "The Zatack heir is weak—barely able to control his vassals. He may have more men, but they're undisciplined and scattered. Your house only lost because your supply lines were severed during the last war. A war doesn't live on golems alone. But what if it didn't need to?"
Gorvan narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not offering soldiers," Fornos said. "I'm offering movement. Winter comes in two months. But your enemy's grain stores are shallow, their convoys exposed, and their territory sprawling. What if you had logistics that could make your small army move like five?"
"That's all words," Gorvan said. "You have nothing."
Fornos smiled and slid a rolled map across the table. He unrolled it with a crisp flick, revealing inked pathways in red—routes that cut through badlands, gorges, and dead zones, circumventing Zatack territory entirely.
"These are only a fraction of what I will bring," he said. "Underground supply chains. Courier routes that don't rely on bridges or open roads. Tunnels and smuggler paths most lords haven't even heard of. You could strangle House Zatack. Drown them in starvation. Let your enemies die biting dust, then move in—clean and quick."
The old lord studied the map, face unreadable. "And in return, what do you want?"
Fornos met his gaze directly. "Two things. First: resources. I want to build a metal refinery in this city. Not a small one—a major operation. You'll maintain ownership and oversight, but I choose the workers and equipment. In return, I'll help reroute your current exports through safer, more profitable channels. You'll see a 30% increase in margins by spring."
Gorvan's gaze darkened with skepticism. "And the second?"
"Favors. Nothing treasonous or suicidal. Just the occasional hand lifted when I need it. A word delayed here, a report lost there. A vote pushed or pulled. Returned in kind, naturally."
Gorvan grunted. "You ask for much."
"I offer more."
The room sat quiet for a moment. Behind them, the dying hearth hissed and crackled. Outside the stained windows, wind whistled past the stone battlements.
"You speak with the confidence of a noble," Gorvan said at last. "Yet you are not one."
"No," Fornos agreed, rising to his feet. "But I aim to build something that outlasts noble bloodlines."
The lord snorted. "Careful. Men who speak like that usually end up bleeding on their own banners."
Fornos smiled faintly. "Then I'll make sure I never raise a banner."
There was a long pause. Gorvan's eyes dropped once more to the map, his fingers brushing the inked lines like veins waiting to be revived.
"I want the refinery operational before winter ends," he said finally. "And I want no mention of this alliance to reach Zatack ears. If you fail me—"
"I won't," Fornos interrupted.
Gorvan stood, extending a gloved hand. "Then may our enemies starve before they bleed."
Fornos took the hand without hesitation. "Agreed."
As he stepped out of the keep and into the foul air of Nozgar, Fornos didn't smile. The work had only begun.
He tapped his coat once, pulling out a parchment titled:
Priority: Black Steel Refinery – Phase I
Beneath it, a simple note in his handwriting:
Resources gained. Alliance forged. Begin preparations for ironworks and covert Codex relays.
The wind howled over the slag hills as Fornos climbed into his carriage, eyes already on the next city.
He had struck the first of many poisoned bargains.
And poison, after all, was just a matter of dosage.