The skies over Nozgar were heavy with gray, the horizon smeared in tones of rust and smoke as if the land itself refused to forget the poison in its soil. Wind swept low across the blackened hills, pushing the stench of sulfur and slag through the craggy streets of the city.
Ten days had passed since Fornos Dag made his deal with Lord Gorvan Mitis.
And now, a convoy had arrived.
It was not a military parade nor a noble procession, but it might as well have been for the stir it caused. Thirty wagons, all reinforced with steel bands, rolled in under heavy guard. Each was pulled by wide-bellied beasts bred for hauling through dead terrain. They moved with slow, deliberate purpose through Nozgar's streets, their arrival a proclamation that something far larger than trade had begun.
At the head of the convoy rode three figures wrapped in crimson-stitched coats—engineers by trade, logistics men by heart, and Fornos' trusted specialists.
They brought with them not only iron, timber, and enchanted chisels, but an envelope—sealed with black wax stamped in the merchant sigil of the Dag family.
Lord Gorvan Mitis sat in his hall when the letter was placed in his hand. His expression did not change as he cracked the seal and read the contents.
"These people are here for construction of the refinery.
They have all the building materials needed.
Just show them the location.
The location of the first set of supply points will be delivered at the beginning of winter.
Prepare your army by then."
—Fornos Dag
Gorvan handed the letter to his steward without a word and rose to his feet. Through the narrow window of his keep, he could already see the wagons lining the city's edge, workers beginning to offload crates and lay down scaffolds.
He muttered under his breath, "You're not wasting time, are you, merchant?"
Several valleys away, under a ridge carved with broken statues and overgrown golem wreckage, Fornos stood in a subterranean chamber lit by mana lamps embedded in the ceiling. Around him were architects of shadow—cartographers, smugglers, former scouts-turned-couriers. None of them noble, but every one of them useful.
A massive canvas map stretched across the chamber's central table. It bore no royal borders, only practical marks—altitude lines, dry streambeds, collapsed tunnels, known Relict avoidance paths.
Fornos tapped his finger on three points across the map—each equidistant from Nozgar.
"These will be our first pressure points," he said, voice crisp. "Zatack's grain is vulnerable in these valleys. They rely on shallow convoys with minimal escort. If we reroute even a fraction of the trade lines through our channels and cut theirs simultaneously, we'll trigger artificial scarcity."
The courier captain, a weathered woman named Mireth, nodded. "Panic follows hunger."
"Exactly," Fornos replied. "And Lord Mitis's troops will be waiting."
Another man, younger and ink-stained from drawing charts, looked up. "But won't Zatack reinforce once they realize they're under siege?"
"Of course," Fornos said. "But not fast enough. We're not aiming for a war of attrition. We want collapse—internal disarray. If all goes well, by late winter, House Zatack will be feeding half its soldiers scraps while Mitis's troops are stocked and mobile."
He looked around the chamber, his expression firm. "This isn't about conquest. It's about control. We're not destroying a house—we're setting the terms for who owns the region's future. And that future goes through our refineries."
He walked around the table, reading the unease and ambition in the eyes surrounding him. "We're about to prove something nobles still don't understand: a merchant's army doesn't ride into battle. It rides beneath it, feeds it, and chooses when it arrives."
Mireth asked, "And if House Zatack strikes back at you directly?"
Fornos smiled faintly. "Then we've already succeeded. They'll waste time chasing a ghost, while House Mitis stabs them in the back."
There were no cheers, no applause. Just nods—cold and determined.
Fornos stepped away from the table, pulling out a leather-bound book. Inside was a series of trade contracts already inked and prepared. Once the refinery in Nozgar was operational, he would activate them—channels for processed metals to flood southern markets under exclusive Dag sigils.
"If I can pull this off," he murmured to himself, "I'll have access to more resources to move forward with."
He closed the book with a soft thud and looked back at the map.
The land was hostile, the politics venomous. But everything moved according to plan.
And Fornos Dag? He wasn't building an empire of soldiers.
He was building the roads they marched on.