"We need more manpower," Nicole said, tossing another log into the small fire. The wax pot above it shimmered in the heat, its golden surface slowly turning liquid.
Leon glanced up from the table where he was trimming the candle wicks. "You're right," he said, watching the wax bubble gently. "If we want to meet the next order before market day, we'll need at least two more pairs of hands."
With the orders piling up, their days soon fell into a relentless rhythm. From dawn until dusk, the house was alive with the soft crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of work. The scent of melting beeswax hung thick in the air, sweet and heavy, clinging to their clothes and hair.
Even after adding more molds, it barely seemed enough. Every surface was covered — rows of freshly cast candles cooling on the table, trays lined with wicks, and buckets of golden wax waiting by the hearth.
Beeswax was now delivered straight to their door by local beekeepers, stacked in neat blocks wrapped in cloth. The small yard outside had turned into a miniature workshop — tubs for cooling, wooden racks for drying, and a shaded corner where Clara, Kara and Elise trimmed and polished the finished candles.
Leon had miscalculated — or perhaps underestimated — just how much people needed his candles. Word had spread faster than he imagined. Now, every morning, before they could even finish breakfast, there was a knock at the door: townsfolk, merchants, even travelers passing through, all eager to buy.
"The problem is where can we find somebody trustworthy?" Sandra questioned.
Leon leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the steady knocking on the door echoed again. "That's exactly it," he said with a weary sigh.
"The process is so easy that anyone can learn and do it on their own." Melina added.
Leon leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as the steady knocking on the door echoed again. "That's exactly it," he said with a weary sigh. "We can't just let anyone in. If they steal our method or spoil the wax, we'll lose everything we've built."
Sandra folded her arms, her brow creasing. "The village is full of people looking for work, but most of them talk too much. One wrong word at the tavern, and every craftsman in town will be trying to copy you."
Clara, who had been sorting wicks nearby, looked up. "What if we bring in someone from outside the town—someone who doesn't know what we're making?"
Leon shook his head slightly. "Still the same, we can't trust them. We need someone close, someone loyal."
Nicole, lost in thought, finally spoke. "I have an idea… though I'm not sure it will work."
Leon turned toward her, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "Tell me," he urged. "What is it?"
Her fingers traced the edge of the wax-stained table as she hesitated. "What if we bring in the orphans and widows who have nothing? The children could handle simple tasks, and the adults could take on the heavier work."
Leon folded his arms, considering her words. "That… could solve our manpower problem," he admitted. "But where would we find them?"
"I know quite a few who are struggling. Leave it to me," Nicole said softly, a shadow of the hardships she'd faced even while employed passing across her face.
Leon's expression softened as he met her gaze. "If we can help them while they help us, it's a win-win. But we must be careful—they'll need guidance, and mistakes in production could be costly."
Nicole nodded resolutely. "I'll bring them gradually. We'll start small, teach them the basics, and see how it goes."
Leon nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That is settled, then. I'll leave production in your hands."
With that, everyone returned to their tasks, the rhythm of work resuming as the orders waited to be filled.
The next few days saw a steady stream of new faces arriving at the workshop. Some were widows traveling alone, others brought their children in tow. Each newcomer was carefully introduced to the rhythm of the work, Nicole patiently demonstrating the techniques while Leon oversaw the organization and ensured supplies ran smoothly.
The children quickly adapted, learning to handle simple tasks with surprising dexterity, while the adults took on the heavier labor—lifting wax blocks, arranging molds, and carefully monitoring the pouring process. Laughter and chatter began to fill the once-quiet workshop, blending with the familiar crackle of the fire and the gentle hum of busy hands.
Leon provided each worker with a fair wage, and Nicole made sure they had meals ready during the long hours. The widows were grateful, and the children's eyes sparkled with excitement as they learned a skill that gave them both purpose and stability. Slowly, the workshop transformed from a small, pressured workspace into a lively, bustling hub of productivity.
With every new addition, the workload lightened, and Leon could finally breathe easier, confident that their growing team could fulfill the merchants' orders before the agreed-upon pickup day.
Everything was on the right track until one day they were woken up by somebody shouting loudly.
The shouting pierced the early morning stillness, jolting Leon and the others awake. Nicole was on her feet instantly, eyes sharp with concern. "What now?" she muttered as she hurried toward the door.
Outside, a small crowd had gathered in the street, murmuring anxiously. At the center stood a tall man in fine clothes, his posture rigid and authoritative.
"Horace what are you doing here?" Nicole, who recognized the man, asked with worry.
"So this is why you stopped coming to work?" Horace asked. "After everything the chief did for you when that weakling son of yours was dying you hid this from us?" he barked loudly as he pointed to a candle held by a servant.
"What help, Horace we both know he did nothing to help me even when I begged." Nicole fired back. " Was his son not the reason I nearly lost my son?"
Horace's face tightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Do not speak like that," he snapped, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. "It is your son's fault overestimating himself."
"Tell me why I should be grateful? why should I inform the chief about my life?" Nicole asked, her voice full of rage.
Horace's jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of his sword. The crowd instinctively took a step back, the murmurs falling into uneasy silence.
"Slap this insolent woman," he instructed his servant who stood by the side silently.
Nicole, who was venting all her pain did not even move as the servant came closer and raised his hand ready to strike.
"I will like to see you try," Leon's voice came from behind Nicole. His voice was cold, calm and collected with an edge of danger.
The servant froze, hand suspended above Nicole's cheek, as if time itself had tightened around the moment. Leon moved like a taught wire snapping loose — quick, controlled, and unafraid. He stepped in, closed the distance, and caught the man's wrist in a firm grip before the blow could fall.
A sharp hiss went through the crowd. The servant struggled for a heartbeat, surprise and anger flickering across his face, but Leon's hold did not loosen. "Don't," he said, low and steady.
With the system, Leon's strength was off the charts; dealing with people like Horace—or his overconfident servant—was almost effortless.
The servant's eyes widened, a mix of pain and fear flashing across his face as he instinctively lowered himself to his knees under Leon's unyielding grip.
Leon's gaze remained fixed on Horace, cold and unflinching, while his other hand maintained the perfect, controlled pressure on the man's wrist. "What brought you here?" He asked, his voice calm, almost conversational as he increased the strength on the servant's hand nearly breaking his hand.
Horace's face tightened, jaw clenching as he stepped closer, trying to assert authority through posture rather than action. "I… I was sent by the Chief," he spat, voice sharp, though a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes as he saw the servant kneeling before Leon. "He wants a steady supply of candles sent to his house daily."
Leon's grip did not loosen, instead the servant cried out sharply as Leon's grip snapped his hand. The sound silenced the murmuring crowd instantly, leaving an eerie stillness in the street. Horace's eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through his carefully maintained composure.
"I am sorry we cannot take any new orders as we lack manpower and resources." Leon said apologetically.
"Don't worry we can provide both manpower and resources." Horace answered quickly with enthusiasm even forgetting about his poor servant.
Leon's eyes narrowed, the faintest shadow of a frown crossing his face. From Horace's reaction, he realized the Chief's plan was far more insidious than it appeared. This wasn't just about getting candles delivered—it was about learning the method of making candles.
"That is very generous of you, give us a few days to organize ourselves then we start the collaboration." Leon answered by showing fake enthusiasm.
Horace's smile widened, teeth flashing in satisfaction. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, clearly convinced that the workshop's secret would soon be his. "How long?"
"Give us around a week to prepare the space for large production." Leon answered.
"Okay, that can be done…I apologize for my servant, I will teach him some manners." Horace apologized with a face full of remorse.
Horace's apology came out smooth and practiced, all contrition and cultivated regret. Leon watched him for a long heartbeat, noting the way the man's smile never quite reached his eyes. If the man had been born on a stage, he would have had a lifetime of standing ovations.
"We'll be ready in a week," Leon said, tilting his head. "Thank the chief for us." His voice stayed polite — a careful mask. As Horace bowed and melted back into the crowd, Leon let the mask fall.
THANK YOU