07:50 a.m. - At Frosthaven Merchant Guild, Registrar's Hall
The Hall of Ledgers was quiet, the kind of quiet that comes when money is being counted. Morning light came through the window and fell on the wooden counter. Rows of big books with brass covers sat there like sleeping animals. A clerk with neat handwriting and a waxed thread bracelet looked up as Ryan put two papers on the counter: Technologia's Frosthaven business papers and proof of his Dawnspire deal.
Only Sariel and two message runners stood by the door. The rest of Ryan's team—Elara, Lira, Bromar and the workers—stayed in Dawnspire. They would help by sending letters and keeping records, not by working here.
"I need to register two pieces of land," Ryan said. "One small place for a workshop—no customers, needs good air flow, away from shops. One bigger place for a factory, near the road for carts."
He used the old word "alchemist" on purpose. The clerk's pen didn't pause. The green light on the ledger stayed steady as she marked the forms with a blue dot.
The clerk gave him a form with neat lines. "You know the guild rules? No bad smells in public drains. Workers' rules must be posted. Magic inspectors can check anytime."
"I know," Ryan said. He spoke like a man who had thought about the risks and was okay with them. "I'll catch all bad air. A fan will push smoke up a chimney. Nothing dangerous, nothing strange. Just a clean workshop, nothing to bring the magic police."
Sariel tapped her pen on the counter once. "Inspector comes in seven days," she said in her flat voice. "We have the fan and filter plans ready."
The clerk looked Ryan over—travel cloak, clean hands (too clean for a blacksmith), dark circles under tired eyes. "Payment?"
Ryan said the numbers clearly, like money should be talked about. "Two gold, two silver today from working money. The rest from a Guild loan: seven gold, four silver."
The clerk's pen stopped. The Treasurer came over with his important ledger book and read from it: "Small workshop land—South Mills Lane, forty by sixty feet—two gold, six silver. Factory land—East Orchard, six city lots—seven gold. Total nine gold, six silver. Extra fees for measuring and writing: six silver. Our deal: you pay ten percent of Technologia's Frosthaven earnings until the loan is paid. Also, we need a local master blacksmith to sign as guarantor."
Ryan put the first payment on the counter. The coins felt warm and final. "I'll get Murdock to guarantee it," he said. "He knows the work and risks. He also makes tools for us. In return, he gets first choice on our Frosthaven metal orders for one year."
The Treasurer's eyes were serious. He moved his finger along the ledger line. "Seven-gold loan at guild rates. Pay interest every eight days, pay back some loan money every three months. If you fail, the Guild takes the land and pays you two-thirds of what you built."
Ryan nodded and showed the Dawnspire bond paper, with the five-gold mine payment note visible. He did the math in his head like breathing: he had three gold, two silver before today. After paying two gold, two silver now, he had no working money left, just one gold emergency money. The Guild loan would pay for building.
Ryan felt the numbers become real. These were the same plans he'd made in Dawnspire that morning—the mine money already promised, the Guild loan now ready. The numbers weren't just ideas anymore—they were real promises.
"You already have a ten-gold loan in Frosthaven," the clerk said, turning a page. "And Dawnspire's paper shows five gold paid for the mine deal."
"That's right," Ryan said. "I had three gold, two silver today. Two gold, two silver paid now, the rest—seven gold loan."
The clerk's pen paused again. "We'll mark the land today. You must show the Fire Warden your chimney and filter plans before we give the second payment."
Sariel took a folded paper from her bag and put it on the counter: drawings of a hand-turned fan, two filter pots in a row, and an ash filter under the drain. She pointed at the page with her pen. "Here are the safety plans. We'll post the worker rules and safety money. We're ready for inspection."
The Treasurer looked at the drawings and then at the names on the papers. "Agreed," he said, and nodded to the clerk to stamp it.
Ryan signed where the book told him to sign. The wax seal felt like a cold coin on the paper. Outside, the city smelled of fresh bread and wet leather. Sariel and the two runners pulled their cloaks tight and watched the door like the day's work was numbers they couldn't let slip away.
08:05 a.m. - At East Orchard / South Mills Lane (factory & lab plots)
Only Sariel came with Ryan. The rest of their team—Elara, Lira, Bromar and the workers—stayed in Dawnspire. They would help with letters and record-keeping, not the physical work. Sariel carried some blank record books and a tool for marking metal tags. She put them on a small stool and folded her hands like she was closing a book.
Ryan looked at the wooden marker posts showing the two land plots—one small area near the dye houses for the lab, one bigger area near the orchard for the factory. He felt the careful balance of his plans. "We'll put the lab by the dye works," he said. "Near water, good airflow, and far enough away so accidents won't burn down houses. The factory goes by the orchard road for easy cart access."
Sariel tapped her pen on the wood. "Timeline?" she asked in her usual direct way.
"Murdock starts the forge base in three days," Ryan said. "Surveyors mark the land today. We start putting in wood supports tomorrow. Two cartloads of wood today, two more tomorrow—Marn is bringing them." He spoke firmly about each point. "I pay half when delivered."
Sariel nodded sharply. "Payment for temporary workers? Who's working?"
"Local people," Ryan said. "Jory from the rope-makers area will lead. Some stonemasons and carpenters too. We'll hire more workers at the market today. I can only pay part wages now—we're low on cash after buying the land. Two silver now as first payment, two more at week's end, full pay when we start making things. Food and a place to sleep for those who need it."
Sariel wrote this down quickly. "Who writes down who works?"
"You do," Ryan said. "You track the workers and records. I'll pay the first amounts. When we're making things, we pay properly. I'll write promises to local sellers who work with us."
A cart carrying wood came up the road. Marn—a big man with a beard, smelling of sawdust—stopped near the marker post. "Half now?" he asked, rubbing a knot in the wood.
"Two gold now for the wood," Ryan said, putting coins down. "Rest when delivered. First choice on future wood orders and a one-year deal if the wood is good. Also, your son can learn from Murdock—with pay."
Marn rubbed the coins with his thumb, leaving a mark. "And if I'm late?"
"One silver per day fine." Ryan spoke like a businessman stating clear rules.
Marn nodded and smacked the wood to agree.
Ryan found Jory—a stonemason who always smelled of mortar. "Two silver per worker today, full pay when the frame is done, bonus if it's done well," Ryan said. Jory thought, then shook Ryan's hand and counted his men.
Sariel started writing names in her book. She tied some metal tags together and held them carefully. She spoke few words. "One gold set aside for injuries—helps hurt workers' families for one month. Inspector comes in seven days. We'll be ready."
Ryan watched workers gather around the materials, people coming together for paid work. "Two types of metalwork," he told Jory. "One for pen tips, one for crossbow parts. Keep them separate."
By noon, Ryan had ordered fan parts, arranged for surveyors, and sent word to the Guild. He quietly used his strong points in deals—the mine money from Dawnspire, the large loan recorded, Murdock's promise vouching for them.
Later, workers started digging and setting up corner posts. Tomorrow the surveyors would mark exact spots, then building would begin.
At day's end, Ryan spoke to the workers: "We're making good jobs and better writing tools. Making weapons to keep soldiers safer. Do good work and there will be more work next year."
They nodded, understanding work and pay. Sariel tied the work records to a post and marked them.
When they finished unloading, Ryan put his marked wooden stick—with its blue wax seal—into the lab post, feeling new responsibilities. "Do it well," he said to the workers.
Sariel put her pen away and gave Ryan her usual look—like the whole city's future was numbers in her book. "Tomorrow at sunrise," she said.
"Sunrise," Ryan agreed.
They stood watching the workers pack up. For the first time, the plan felt real instead of just numbers.
11:45 a.m. - At Murdock's Forge, Frosthaven
The forge was hot like a living thing. First Ryan felt the heat, then heard Murdock's deep laugh that shook dust from the rafters. The sound mixed with the ringing of hammer on metal.
"You again," Murdock said, grinning through his sooty face. "If you came with new work, I'll listen. If you brought a money-man, I'll bite him."
"I need your name for the Guild papers," Ryan said. He put the loan document on a bench—the page with the empty line for "Guarantor."
"Ha!" Murdock laughed. "They want my promise behind your deal."
"They want someone to find if I get lost in the woods," Ryan said.
Murdock took the papers carefully with his blacksmith hands. He read the terms—the interest, fines, and rule that said the Guild could take the land if Ryan failed. Then he looked at Ryan through the heat waves. "What do I get?"
"Work for your people," Ryan said. "First choice on our metal orders for a year." He pointed to another page. "Regular buys of your iron and charcoal. A share of our Frosthaven sales when we succeed. And protection against copycats."
Murdock's eyes sharpened. "Explain properly."
Ryan took chalk and wrote on wood: "Suppliers. Sales. Protection. Information."
He added, "In Dawnspire we planned four hundred pen tips in ten days. With your name backing me, we can promise more—one thousand by next month if your forge can do it."
Murdock chuckled. "A thousand? Big teeth. Can you feed that mouth?"
"I'm buying ore from Dawnspire mine. Special metal from sellers here. We'll show samples at scribe halls and shops. Protection means working fast and openly." Ryan rubbed the chalk words. "I'll watch for cheaters and learn what happens on the roads."
Murdock leaned in, understanding solid things. "What's my part here?"
"Be our face," Ryan said simply. "Put your mark on finished goods. Keep quality high. And I need a hidden room."
"Explain," Murdock said.
"A secret workshop behind your coal shed. No sign. No daytime deliveries. A room with a hand fan, two filter pots under the floor, ash traps, brick floor. Good air flow but sealed. Not for strange potions—just inks and test samples. I'll bring the fan and pots. You provide bricks, wood, and workers. Cost: eighteen silver for materials, four silver for labor. Ready in one week after marking the spot."
Murdock scratched his beard. "I can hide a door in the coal shed. If asked, I'll say it's your tool room. We must pay the city surveyor to look away. Your job—keep magic inspectors away."
"Agreed," Ryan said. "The filters will catch anything bad. If inspectors test it, we're finished."
Murdock took the pen. "Sign here," he said flatly. He wrote his name as guarantor in strong letters. "I stand behind you. Give me first choice on Frosthaven metal for a year. I'll make one thousand tips next month—you bring steel, I polish. Pay every ten dozen. Fines if late."
Ryan signed, then added quietly, "We said four hundred first. Now a thousand—but if we fail, we both pay."
Murdock gripped Ryan's arm—half handshake, half warning. He squeezed hard—a promise between men who might become allies.
"We'll write the smaller deal too," Murdock said. "One thousand tips, schedule, quality marks. That hidden room—you pay for fan and pots. I build walls and door. One week. Bring your ward-stick."
They wrote the second agreement for the secret room: "No visitors. Good air flow. Traps under floor. Only Murdock and Ryan can enter. Cost: 18 silver materials, 4 silver labor. Ready in one week. Deliver: 1000 finished tips next month. Payment as agreed."
Murdock signed with a coal-black thumb. "Tell the Guild I signed," he told his apprentice, who nodded seriously.
After signing, Murdock took out the smaller contract: "1000 tips next month. Different sizes. Ryan brings steel. Murdock finishes. Pay every ten dozen. Fines if late." Ryan initialed it—one signature for plans, one for risk.
They sealed the deal the old way—with a handshake and a short, loud laugh that wasn't silly or proud.
"Now," Murdock said, picking up his hammer, "before you ruin someone's accounts, we write the secret list about those who might harm us."
He took out a slate Ryan knew well. Under "Watch List" were four empty boxes. Ryan had already written three names there: Gin. Barden. Lyss. He put the slate away and touched the ward-stick at his belt.
"Go mark your land," Murdock said, voice gentler now. "Bring back your ward-stick and fan. And bring your head back too."
09:10 p.m. - At South Mills Lane, Frosthaven
The tanners had long since shut their stalls. The dye vats looked like skin over oil. The moon hit the pink‑blue surface and it shone like a dead eye. The surveyor's stakes stood in the black mud. The corner of Ryan's lab lot looked like a white tooth in the lane. A plank fence sagged where Murdock's coal shed would hide the back door. A rope hung from a pulley with a bucket. The air smelled of leather, salt, iron and cold. It smelled like things left to rot.
Ryan breathed in. It tasted like medicine he hated but had to take. He had been at the City Survey all afternoon. He had answered questions about drains, fans and trap pots. He had the ward‑stick. It leaned against the stake. It was a stick of ash with a blue wax bead on top. It waited for a mage's circle. He had the loan guarantee. Murdock's girl had run quick as a bird. The Treasurer's bored signature under "Guarantor" made the debt a heavier thing.
He touched the stake and felt the scratch the surveyor had cut to mark the corner. He did not take the ward‑stick back. He trusted a stake and blue wax the way he trusted a signature. That mistake would cost him tonight.
South Mills Lane did not carry small sounds well. Stone swallowed little noises, so bigger ones sounded wrong. He did not hear the footsteps behind him. By the time he did, it was too late.
The three who had watched him at Frostlight were there now. The slow shield‑man. The swordsman with sleeves rolled. The quick scout. They closed in. Gin's voice warmed his ear. "Evening, merchant. We were going to talk in the square. This was quieter."
A hand grabbed the back of his collar. Another caught his right wrist and twisted it down. The move was neat. It was the work of men who had done it before. Ryan did not think. He only knew two facts: the man behind him had done this before, and Ryan Mercer had punched gym bags, not men in lanes.
He saw enough. Gin's sleeves were tight. His jaw looked like stone. Barden stood big with a broad shield on his back. Lyss slid between the stakes and the fence, light and fast. The hand at his neck squeezed. His breath hit the small space that people keep when they cannot use it.
"You told a lot of men about a lot of things," Lyss said. Her voice was small and curious. It was the voice of someone who finds a broken bird and wonders if it will fly. "The mine. The inspector. The public ledger at the door. The thing we took in the dark that you took to the day."
"I told the truth," Ryan croaked. The word meant nothing with a hand at his throat. He planted his feet and tried to push back. Gin rode his weight like a rider on a horse and set him on his knees in the mud. The ward‑stick's blue bead bobbed in the corner of his eye like a joke.
Barden said nothing. His silence had weight. He tilted his head enough to show he understood.
Ryan got his left arm up and shoved into Lyss's space. Surprise is power. He shoved, rolled, and his shoulder hit a stake. Splinters bit thin skin. He spun low and hit Gin with an open hand. The hit worked for one heartbeat.
Lyss trapped his ankle with a quick step and sent him sideways. He hit the stake again. A splinter cut under his ribs. The world became a mess of jerks and blows. A heel hit his belly. Hands grabbed his hair. Mud smeared his cheek. He swung wild and hit nothing. The three moved like men who had practiced this until it felt easy.
"Stop," Gin said. It was not loud. It was the voice that keeps dogs from eating what they should not. Something hard pressed the base of Ryan's skull — a knife handle or a fist. He stopped in the way men stop when a wrong move makes a hole that cannot be left.
"We told our crowd about you," Lyss said, even and clinical. "We told them the holes you made in our plans. We said you were the kind of man we could follow down a hole and pull out by his hair. They laughed. Then they gave us a coin to bring you the quiet way. Coin is heavier when the man lifting it cannot run."
"You could sell me," Ryan said, voice thin under the blindfold they now pushed over his eyes. "Stoneveil. Varena. They'd pay more silver."
"Maybe we will," Lyss said. She sounded like a surgeon before the first cut. "Maybe we'll take you where men do not ask our names. Maybe to the ground that does not hold a stake."
Gin's hand tightened — the only punctuation he offered. Barden grunted. The sound said everything: deal done.
They half‑led him, half‑carried him. They moved like a thing with four legs through a lane that had become sharp and simple: the next step, the next corner, the next man who did not wish to be involved.
The road changed underfoot — grit, cobble, grit. The smells moved from leather to yeast to the water of the rope‑walk. They turned twice, then again. The blindfold grew hot with his breath. Ryan kept counting turns by the beat of his heart. The part of him that writes lists kept a tally even without sight.
A door opened. Hands took his elbow and his back. He went from the skin of the street into a yard that smelled of earth and coal. The cloth pressed tighter. His breath tasted cold and clay.
Outside, at the short stake where he had left it, the ward‑stick still leaned against the white wood. Its blue bead caught the moon. No one had taken it. Like a ledger in the day, it only watched and could not speak.
The door closed. In the yard a biscuit cooled on a table where a girl with ink on her sleeves had put it down. The forge — warm and patient — breathed into the dark.