The hall emptied in layers.
Not abruptly.
Like fog thinning.
Chairs scraped softly against stone, the clink of cutlery fading, murmured farewells folding into the wider silence of the estate.
Landon rose first, as he always did when training called.
He inclined his head to the nobles, simple and unadorned, then turned. His boots met stone in measured rhythm, sword at his hip, shoulders already shifting into the calm readiness he wore like second skin. Within moments, he vanished past the doorway—another shadow among the knights that waited outside.
Reina followed shortly after.
She wiped her fingers with a cloth napkin, stood, and gave a perfectly proper noble bow—just deep enough to show respect, just shallow enough to remind that she belonged neither entirely below nor beside anyone here.
Her gaze brushed briefly past Kel.
Evaluating.
Then she left without a word, the faint swish of her cloak trailing behind her.
Sera pushed her chair back lazily, stretching with feline indifference, arms overhead for one unrestrained moment before settling them back at her sides.
She looked at Lysenne.
"Let's go," she said.
No formality. No title.
Lysenne smiled—tentative but warmer than before.
"Yes."
She stood slowly, placing subtle weight on her legs, as if testing them once again. Her steps were still careful, but there was less fear and more… ownership.
Together, they moved toward the door—Sera's gait unhurried, confident; Lysenne's controlled, determined. They passed the threshold in quiet tandem, bound by a history torn and stitched in blood, curses, and a boy's insane promise.
The door sighed shut behind them.
And then there were three.
Kel.
Count Elaine Vanhart.
Viscount Lorian Malloren.
The clatter and warmth of a shared meal had gone.
What remained—
were decisions.
The fire in the side hearth murmured low, its orange glow painting wavering lines across the stone floor. The long table, still bearing half-empty cups and a scattered crumb or two, suddenly looked less like a place for eating—
and more like a war table.
Vanhart sat at its head, fingers loosely draped around a cup long since cooled. The steam had died, but he still held it.
Malloren rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of his mouth, his expression thoughtful, softened only by the faint lines of exhaustion at his eyes.
Kel sat as he had been, posture straight, hands loosely folded before him. His dark eyes watched both men, unblinking, taking in the subtle signs—the way the viscount's shoulders had relaxed fractionally since yesterday, the way the Count's gaze held a sharper, more measured shine.
Kel broke the quiet first.
He did not waste breath.
"Count," he said lightly, as if asking about the weather. "How is our plan working?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction.
"How many requests have come in since you announced what I suggested?"
Elaine Vanhart did not answer immediately.
He studied Kel in silence.
The boy's tone was polite, mild.
The question was not.
It carried the weight of:
Have you acted?
Did the world answer?
Did my gamble pay?
The Count's lips curved, faint, almost invisible at the edges.
"Efficiently," he said at last.
He set the cup down with a soft tok upon the table.
"Yesterday morning, after we sent the first courier—"
He glanced at Malloren.
"—we received our first reply before evening."
Malloren's mouth hardened faintly, as if the memory carried mixed sentiments.
Kel tapped one finger once against the wood.
"From who?"
"Merchant House Dreyl," Vanhart replied. "Northern circuit. Small compared to imperial guilds, but aggressive in recovery investments. They requested immediate confirmation of harlroot's quality, volume, and exclusivity terms."
"Of course they did," Kel murmured.
There was a brief glint in his eyes.
"Dreyl is hungry. They prefer risky bets with high return potential. Ideal to stir panic in larger houses."
Malloren's brows arched.
"You know their name."
Kel did not look at him.
"I've read," he said simply. "And I paid attention."
Vanhart's eyes grew more serious.
"That was the first," he continued. "This morning, before breakfast…"
He nodded toward the far end of the hall.
Kel followed his gaze.
Only now did he notice the small side table near the wall, once meant for serving trays.
Now, it held a stack of letters.
Sealed in wax.
Ten? No.
More.
The irregular shapes and various colors of sealing wax gleamed faintly in the firelight—crimson, dark blue, dull gold, even one with a black imprint Kel recognized as a southern banking family's mark.
"Requests?" he asked.
Vanhart inclined his head.
"Expressions of interest," he corrected softly. "Requests for conditions. Demands for priority. Threats disguised as favors. Favors disguised as threats. And at least three trying to circumvent your 'first ten' condition with promises of bribery."
Malloren snorted.
Kel's lips twitched.
"So," Kel said, "the pond heard a stone was thrown."
"And the fish are leaping," Malloren muttered.
Kel leaned slightly forward, elbows resting loosely upon the table. He did not slouch. His spine remained perfectly straight, as if even casual postures were another calculated choice.
"How many," he asked, "specifically?"
Vanhart folded his hands.
"Seven merchant houses. Two major guild representatives. One imperial asset handler with no direct crest."
Kel's fingers stopped moving.
He looked up.
"Imperial," he echoed.
Malloren's expression darkened.
"Yes."
Elaine's voice did not waver.
"They didn't send a direct demand. Only an inquiry. 'Preliminary interest in projected winter production assets.'"
"In coded terms," Malloren added, "that is less 'Are you selling?' and more 'Remember your place when you do.'"
Kel's gaze lowered.
The fire popped in the hearth, sending a brief cascade of tiny embers up the chimney.
"So," he said softly, "the Empire has noticed the corpse twitching."
Malloren grimaced faintly.
Vanhart allowed himself a small, thin smile.
"That is one way to phrase it."
Kel was quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on his own loose hands.
His expression did not shift.
Inside—
numbers turned.
Reception speed = high.
Transmission radius = wider than projected.
Imperial handler interest = both opportunity and warning.
Good.
And dangerous.
He lifted his gaze again.
"Of those ten," he asked, "how many requested immediate travel permission?"
"Nine," Vanhart replied. "House Dreyl has already dispatched a caravan. It should reach our borders in three days at most."
"Too fast," Malloren muttered. "They must have been positioned closer than they claimed."
"Of course they were," Kel said. "You don't gamble well if you don't sit near the table."
His eyes glinted.
"You accepted?"
The Count nodded once.
"They have been granted entry as first prospective buyer. As per your structure, they understand that being among the first ten is contingent upon their purchase volume. They do not yet know that House Malloren has already claimed one slot."
Kel's attention shifted to Lorian.
"Good," he said. "Let them compete in ignorance. It makes them more… enthusiastic."
Malloren tilted his head.
"You speak about merchants as if they were beasts to be baited."
Kel laced his fingers together.
"Beasts obey instinct," he replied calmly. "Merchants obey hunger. The difference is in vocabulary, not behavior."
Vanhart let out a faint breath that might almost have been a laugh.
Almost.
Kel leaned back slightly, considering.
"So," he said, "the plan is working. Demand stirred. Curiosity triggered. Greed engaged."
He tapped the table once more, quietly.
"Now we need to avoid drowning in the river we've called."
Malloren frowned.
"How?"
Kel's gaze sharpened.
"First," he said, "you do not reply to all at once. Let a day pass for some. Two for others."
"Delay the stronger?" Vanhart asked.
Kel shook his head.
"Delay the arrogant. Favor the hungry. The ones who insult you under the guise of courtesy—let their letters sit unopened. They will come anyway when rumors of exclusivity reach them. By then, their bargaining power will be lower."
Malloren muttered, "Cruel."
"Strategic," Kel corrected.
He looked to Vanhart.
"Second, ensure every responding letter includes the conditions clearly: minimum fifty percent bulk purchase, contract term for one year at forty percent discount… and the commission clause of thirty percent of their harlroot-based revenue returned to Vanhart as processing and exclusive sourcing fee."
Vanhart nodded.
"We kept it exactly as you outlined."
Kel's lips pressed into a thin, satisfied line.
"Good."
"Doesn't such a high commission risk refusal?" Malloren pressed. "Some may walk away."
Kel's gaze shifted to him.
"Then let them," he said.
He spoke as if discarding scraps.
"The ones who walk are not the ones we want. We are not looking for fast coin. We are looking for long-term veins. Any merchant unwilling to tie themselves this deeply at the beginning will not remain loyal when larger houses try to pressure them to drop Vanhart later."
He paused.
"Better to filter them now, when stakes are low, than five years from now when everything depends on solidity."
Malloren's fingers loosened.
He leaned back, expression thoughtful.
"I suppose… yes. That makes sense."
Vanhart studied Kel quietly.
"You speak as if you will be here in five years," he said softly.
Kel did not flinch.
He didn't look away.
"I intend to be," he answered.
There was nothing boastful in the phrase.
No anger.
Just a calm, brutal refusal of his old death sentence.
Malloren watched him with a strange mix of fondness and fear.
Vanhart's eyes softened a fraction.
Then hardened again.
"Third?" the Count prompted.
Kel drew in a breath.
"Third," he continued, "the imperial handler."
Both men went still.
Kel's brows lowered.
"You may acknowledge receipt," he said. "Politely. With courtesy. Minimal details. Emphasize that you are in the process of establishing limited private agreements. Do not give them numbers yet."
"And if they press?" Malloren asked.
Kel's tone cooled.
"Then you forward the letter to my father."
That drew a reaction.
Both men looked at him sharply.
Kel's gaze did not waver.
"You are Vanhart," he said to the Count. "You have autonomy. But you are still under the duchy. This is one of the few times it benefits you to be loud about that."
He folded his hands again.
"Let it be known that Duke Rosenfeld is aware. You're not defying the Empire. You are building stability under one of its pillars. That makes you less of a nail to hammer and more of a tool in reach."
Vanhart's eyes narrowed faintly.
"You're using your house as shield."
Kel shrugged lightly.
"That's what shields are for."
There was no arrogance in the statement.
Only practicality.
Silence settled briefly.
The fire crackled.
A distant voice shouted somewhere in the courtyard.
Inside the hall:
Three people, three lines of thought.
Lorian Malloren broke it this time.
"…Kel."
Kel turned his head slightly.
"Yes, Viscount?"
Malloren's gaze wasn't sharp.
Wasn't cold.
It was… searching.
"You said earlier that life is meaningless to you if you cannot save someone worth saving."
Kel's eyes did not ripple.
"I did."
"And now," Malloren murmured, "you speak of houses and trade routes, crop rotations and commission clauses with the same weight as legs and curses."
Kel did not respond immediately.
Malloren's fingers tightened on the table.
"Do you consider Vanhart and Malloren… worth saving?"
Kel blinked once.
The question was simple.
The answer—
"…Yes," he said.
He did not embellish.
"Why?"
Kel's gaze drifted toward the empty chairs where Sera and Lysenne had sat minutes ago.
He stared at them for a heartbeat.
Then looked back at the men.
"Because the story I remember," he said quietly, "was worse without you."
Malloren's breath hitched.
Vanhart's eyes sharpened.
Kel didn't elaborate.
Didn't explain.
Didn't confess the exact death counts, the lost fronts, the broken walls in the version of the world that no one but him had seen.
He just added, calmly:
"And because this time, you have people who still want to stand."
He nodded once in the direction of the door.
"Some debts," he said, "are worth making sure they never die unpaid."
Malloren swallowed.
"And ours?"
Kel let his lips curl in the faintest shadow of something like a smile.
"…Already being counted."
The Count closed his eyes briefly.
Then opened them, decision firm.
"We will proceed," he said. "Exactly as you planned."
He studied Kel's face.
"You understand," he added softly, "that with every step, you tie yourself deeper into our fate."
Kel met that with quiet certainty.
"I understood the moment I chose to intervene."
Vanhart nodded slowly.
"Very well then."
He rose from his seat.
"Let us see," he murmured, "how far this plan of yours can drag a dying land back to its feet."
Malloren stood as well.
He placed a hand on the table.
Not as a noble.
As a man bracing himself.
Kel remained seated a moment longer.
He looked at their hands.
At the fire.
At the letters.
He exhaled once.
Then rose too.
"Remember," he said softly as he moved to leave, "we're not asking the world's permission."
His eyes glinted.
"We're informing it that the North has decided not to die on schedule."
Then he turned, coat trailing behind him, and walked away.
The door closed.
The hall quieted.
And at the table where they had broken bread, two lords remained—
staring at the pile of sealed letters like a stack of seeds they had no choice but to plant.