The lesser council chamber was spacious. It smelled of old stone and wax. Flames in wrought iron sconces flickered, yet no smoke curled in slow spirals toward the ceiling. The carpet, once a deep blue, was threadbare in places. The map on the table was patched with scraps of parchment, its ink blurred and faded.
Azrathion arrived last. He liked the subtle advantage of timing. Not too late, neither too early. Enough to see how others reacted.
Two branch heads awaited him.
Lord Malrec of Keth, the head of the line, spurred from Azrathion's granduncle, appeared an old devil. One of the few who preferred to show his age. His face was lined with careful thought rather than malice. He nodded as Azrathion entered, a simple greeting. His hands rested on the table.
Lady Veshra of Tyrr was smaller, sharper, and appeared restless. Her eyes glinted like obsidian as they roamed the map. She flicked a smear of soot from her sleeve as she spoke, impatience threaded through every gesture. Her hair was cropped practically short; her movements precise and deliberate.
They were both sincere. Not in the polished, theatrical sense of most nobles. They cared. And that was far more dangerous than plotting.
"Azrathion," Malrec said, voice low and steady, not unkind. "You arrive late."
"Apologies," Azrathion replied, unconvincing. He took a seat at the head of the table. Hands folded. Posture measured. Exhausted. He could feel the faint hum of the System pulsing in the background. A small comfort, though meaningless in itself.
Veshra cleared her throat and slid a parchment across the map. The Dantalion seal glimmered faintly in the candlelight. "These are their designs," she said, her finger tracing the schematics. "A metallurgical complex, fuelled by the eastern ore seams. Refined steel." She paused, observing the gathered lords. "The production process is still being refined, but Lord Dantalion assures me of its quality," she added, voice laced with confidence. "I believe we should subsidise now. We would be among the first to establish a presence in the realms. It will give us unprecedented control and influence. Perhaps even change the scale of Uvall production entirely."
Malrec leaned back in his chair, fingers laced beneath his chin. He regarded the parchment as one might regard a storm on the horizon. "A compelling vision," he said. "But costly. We cannot pretend our coffers are boundless. Roads require repair. Tolls remain unpaid. Fortresses require upkeep," he added, gesturing to the chamber itself. Then he paused, tapping a knuckle against the table. "Perhaps we could incentivise the artisans. A special tax relief. Less ambitious. Less perilous. A safer method to increase our production and, eventually, export. That might provide the funding for your project."
Veshra's eyes hardened. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands steepled. "It is true that it is expensive," she said, "but thrift alone will not secure the clan's place. Industry must be our spine. True industry—not a dozen thousand smiths scattered through the realms. Without it, we cannot claim the respect—or advantage—we require. The Dantalion craftsmen will teach skills our smiths do not yet possess."
Malrec shook his head slowly. "Where is the value in that steel? We know not the demand, nor the prices, nor whether the proposed quality is as promised. You seek to produce for a market we know nothing of." He exhaled. "You build a furnace, yet who buys its steel? Who transports it? Rivers, roads, mercantile networks—these cost more than a furnace. And artisans already labour. Flood the market with tax-free steel and blades, and what happens? Prices fall. Earnings shrink."
Azrathion sat forward, chest tightening. The debate had begun, as expected. A question gnawed at him. He spoke carefully. "Has anyone assessed the demand? Not production projections, but actual, tangible demand. And if we reduce taxes, can the artisans' wares even leave the borders? Without infrastructure to support export, as Lord Malrec has said, this endeavour is a mere drain."
Veshra's hands hovered over the parchment. Her fingers flexed. "We can pair tax incentives with export measures," she said. "Caravans. Guild credits. Construction. We ensure the produce reaches the buyers." She tapped the schematics. "The complex will scale our production tremendously. I suspect a great demand for steel sooner than later. Thus, we should invest."
Malrec rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So, you would rather spend the little we have in uncertainty?"
Veshra's jaw tightened. "And you would rather count your coin, hoping that it somehow saves us," she snapped, biting back her anger. "We must be innovative."
"You lay bricks before the roads exist to move them," Malrec said, voice low, deliberate. "A spine without motion is useless."
Azrathion inhaled, letting their words settle. Both were correct in a sense. Both believed they were right, believed they were acting for the good of Uvall. And yet, both were plotting, as all nobles did, though they would never admit it.
He tilted his head, considering the room, the map, the murmurs of loyalty and ambition that lingered in the shadows. "Lady Veshra, have you considered co-financing the project with a major family? Has Dantalion offered to do so?" Azrathion asked slowly. "If we have the attention of investors—or an investor—then we can focus on establishing the infrastructure for export."
Lady Veshra made an ugly face, as though the question insulted her. "There have been… offers." She schooled herself. "I have yet to respond. I don't trust their intentions, and I wish for the complex to remain under the sole purview of the Clan."
Azrathion narrowed his eyes. She spoke of the Clan, yet it was clear she wanted control. Control of the project. Of the funding. Of the complex itself.
Malrec intervened. "It is unwise to reject the offer. If they finance the complex, and we follow Lord Azrathion's suggestion, then I only request that I be entrusted with overseeing the construction of the commercial arteries."
Azrathion nodded, a faint ache behind his ribs. Not victory. Not defeat. Compromise. A fragile, temporary balance.
Veshra appeared defiant, then gave a resigned sigh. "Very well."
He left the chamber with the taste of iron at the back of his mouth, their voices still threading through his head. The compromise hung between them like a lantern swaying in a guttering wind—neither dazzling nor dead. Practical. Fragile. Entirely human.
Outside, a scribe hurried past, parchment fluttering. A servant carried a tray of cooling tea. Life continued in small, indifferent motions. Men and women mended boots, swept ash, counted coin. The great things rusted while life went on.
Azrathion walked slowly, steps measured, replaying the meeting like one might replay a wound to see its edges. Veshra's impatience. Malrec's caution. Their care. Their ambition. None of it was theatre. They meant it. That made the politics harder to untangle. Sincerity breeds conviction. Conviction eats compromise.
If he were honest—if he stripped back all rhetoric and posture—he had no real authority to enforce either plan. Not yet. The Sleeping Disease had taken more than a man; it had taken the rhythm of command. Men obeyed his name only because a name is easier to ignore than a living demand. He had the title. He had not yet earned the muscle to use it.
He thought of Liraeon, of course. The butler's small, precise counsel. The way she had stayed at his shoulder while the lords argued. She had not spoken; she did not need to. Her silence was a metronome. She knew the hours to strike. She kept ledgers in her head the way others kept swords.
He would need her. He would need more than her. He would need leverage.
The hybrid plan—pilot furnace, targeted relief, loans, construction—was sensible. Sensible and slow. It bought time. Caution. It avoided catastrophe. But it also gave others room to move. Space in which branches could consolidate, whisper to merchants, whisper to captains of cartage. Space in which a single well-timed marriage, a single private contract, might steal the promise from under his feet.
He pictured the Dantalions. Merchants and engineers who drew cities like maps of teeth. Why had they offered designs at all? Altruism was not a Dantalion trait. They would want something: a foothold, concessions, a monopoly over certain grades of ore. Possibly military consulting once the complex ran. Every gift was a claim. He should have insisted on co-financing with conditions. It was his oversight. He hated the reflex—the embarrassment of his prior life—but it persisted.