Two days later.
The gold weighed heavy on more than just the carts.
For two days straight, the Ranevian mines had yielded riches beyond anything even the capital's tax collectors could dream of.
Six hundred pounds of raw gold gleamed beneath the sun, stacked in crates and sealed under lock and guard. Another batch waited just behind it, shimmering in the depths of the mine like buried sunlight.
And yet—none of it had moved.
Lan stood over the courtyard, gazing down at the neat rows of reinforced crates, arms folded.
"We're producing over three hundred pounds a day," Bragg muttered behind him. "And the men are starting to talk."
"They're hungry," Venom added. "Some of them are working double shifts. Others haven't been paid a single coin. They're loyal—for now. But loyalty is no match for an empty stomach."
Miller stood to the side, impassive. Silent.
Lan turned and nodded. "Then let's talk."
