2 weeks later,
The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the tall windows of Count Redwood's manor study.
A middle-aged man with graying temples sat across from Baron Hartfield, his fingers drumming nervously against a leather-bound ledger.
Behind him stood two other men—one thin and weasel-like with ink-stained fingers, the other broad-shouldered with the calculating eyes of a merchant who'd seen both sides of every coin.
"Baron Hartfield," the middle-aged man—Steward Orvil—cleared his throat. "About the northern trade route permissions... the merchants' guild is quite eager to finalize the contract."
Baron Hartfield leaned back in what had once been Count Redwood's chair, a glass of expensive wine swirling in his hand. His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Eager, you say?" He took a slow sip. "Well, eagerness often comes with... appropriate compensation, wouldn't you agree?"
