The Dirrium nobility act 7: The liquidation
: The Liquidation of the East
While Leornars finalized the "stabilization" of the throne, the Eastern Merchant Lords—a collective known as the Gilded Syndicate—believed they were the true winners of the chaos. They sat in their velvet-lined counting house in the port city of Oakhaven, surrounded by ledgers that smelled of salt and greed.
"The King is gone, the Prince is a puppet, and Leornars is busy in the capital," Lord Maerone chuckled, tapping his gold-ringed fingers on the table. "Now, we squeeze the supply lines. We double the tariffs on all goods entering the vassal state. If Avangard wants to run this country, they'll pay us for the privilege of using our docks."
"And if they refuse?" another merchant asked.
"Then the food doesn't move. The iron doesn't move. And Leornars finds out that you can't eat 'logic'."
The heavy iron doors of the counting house didn't open; they simply ceased to be. A flash of silver light disintegrated the locks, and Stacian stepped through the mist. She wasn't dressed as a maid or a duchess today. She wore her combat silks, her silver hair tied back with a ribbon of raw mana.
"Lord Maerone," she said, her voice as flat and cold as a frozen lake. "Your presence is required for an immediate audit."
The Impossible Math
Maerone stood up, puffing out his chest. "You're the Administrator's girl. Tell your master that the docks are private property. If he wants to talk trade, he comes with a chest of gold, not a silver-haired brat."
Stacian didn't respond. She walked to the center of the room and placed a single, glowing crystal on their master ledger. The crystal projected a complex web of red lines—a map of every secret offshore account, every smuggled shipment, and every bribed official the Syndicate owned.
"The Gilded Syndicate operates on a 14% margin of hidden theft," Stacian recited, her eyes glowing with a faint silver hue. "You have been under-reporting your exports to the Northern Empire for twelve years. The total debt to the state, including compounded interest and 'treason surcharges,' is 42 million gold pieces."
The merchants erupted in laughter. "Even if that were true, you can't prove it! And you certainly can't seize our assets without a fleet. We control the sailors!"
"I don't need a fleet," Stacian said. She snapped her fingers.
Outside, a deafening thrum shook the building. The merchants rushed to the window. Their eyes widened in horror. The ocean wasn't moving. The entire harbor—every ship, every wave, every drop of water—had been frozen into a solid block of silver-tinted ice.
"The water is no longer a public utility," Stacian said, her voice echoing in the silent room. "By order of the Grand Administrator, the molecular density of the harbor has been 'recalculated.' Nothing leaves. Nothing enters."
The Closing of the Books
Maerone turned back, his face a mask of fury. "You're insane! You'll starve the city! You'll destroy the very trade you want!"
"Correction," Stacian said, stepping toward him. Her movement was so fast it left a silver blur in the air. "I am destroying your trade. The city will be fed by Avangard air-transports. You, however, are now in breach of contract with every client you serve. By tomorrow, your creditors will tear this building down to find your hidden gold."
She reached out and plucked the gold ring off Maerone's finger. He couldn't even flinch; his body felt like it was encased in lead.
"Lord Leornars sent me because he is a man of words," Stacian whispered into his ear. "He likes to let people realize they've lost. I, however, find that process... inefficient. I prefer to show you the bottom line immediately."
She tapped the crystal on the table. The red lines turned black.
"Every one of your warehouses has just been 'transmuted' into a state-owned hospital or orphanage. The locks are bonded with the same varnish used on Viscountess Mishima. You have ten seconds to sign over your remaining personal holdings to the Avangard Reconstruction Fund, or I will recalculate the molecular density of the air in this room."
"You... you're a monster," Maerone wheezed, his lungs beginning to burn as the oxygen grew thin.
"I am Stacian Von Gremohiah, Lord Leornars's right hand and his personal assistant and Dutchess of Avangard kingdom," Stacian corrected. "And your account is overdue."
By sunset, Oakhaven was no longer a merchant city. It was a hub of the state. Stacian stood on the frozen docks, watching as the Deep-Iron Golems began offloading supplies from the sky.
She pulled out a small communication stone. "My Lord. The East has been liquidated. The Merchant Lords have retired to the salt mines to pay off their 'imbalances'."
"Efficient as always, Stacian," Leornars's voice crackled through the stone. "Did they scream?"
"Only for a moment," she replied, a small, musical laugh escaping her lips. "They thought money was power. I reminded them that power is the ability to change the definition of 'water'."
"Excellent. Return to the capital. We have a banquet to prepare for our new 'vassal' Prince. I want him to see exactly how much he has 'won'."