Chapter 21: Financial Crisis
"We're going to lose the headquarters."
Mira's words hung in the planning room air like a death sentence. The papers spread between us told the story in brutal arithmetic: expenses exceeding income by nearly forty percent. Twelve people to feed now—six members, Viktor's stipend, five novices requiring housing and food during training. The property payment deadline approaching like an executioner's blade.
"Show me the numbers again."
She pushed the ledger across the table. Her handwriting was precise, columns aligned perfectly, the methodology beyond reproach. The conclusion remained the same regardless of how I rearranged the figures.
"Income from contracts this month: eighteen crowns. Expenses: twenty-nine crowns. Outstanding debt: twenty-seven crowns. Property payment due in five weeks: twenty-five crowns." She tapped the final sum. "We need fifty-two crowns minimum just to break even. More if we want to actually operate."
"What about the commission system?"
"Generating slowly. Three GP per week from member contracts, maybe two crowns equivalent if we factor conversion." She shook her head. "Not enough. Not close to enough."
I stared at the numbers until they blurred. The founding ceremony felt like ages ago—all that optimism, all those plans, crashing against the simple reality that organizations cost money to run.
"Options."
"Reduce rations. We're already at subsistence levels, but we could cut further."
"Rejected. Starving our people weakens them for contracts."
"Suspend training. Viktor's stipend and the novice housing costs are significant."
"Rejected. Viktor's building our future combat capability. Stopping now wastes the investment already made."
"Take on more contracts ourselves. You specifically." She met my eyes. "High-value, high-risk work. The kind other guilds reject."
"There it is. The option I've been avoiding."
"What's available?"
She produced a second paper—contract listings from the city board. "Basilisk nest. Merchant caravans being attacked on the northern road. Fifty crown reward. Nobody's taken it because basilisks are—"
"Lethal. Petrifying gaze, venomous bite, tough scales that resist normal weapons." I scanned the contract details. "Six caravans lost in the past two months. Guards found as statues."
"It's suicide, Finn."
"It's fifty crowns. Enough to clear our debts and make the property payment with change left over."
"And if you die?"
"Then the guild has bigger problems than money."
Tom's Perspective
The kid was going to get himself killed.
I found him in the equipment room, checking gear with the methodical care of someone preparing for a dangerous mission. Silver sword—the one he'd used against the wraith. Steel backup blade. Leather armor reinforced at vital points. Potions in belt pouches.
"Basilisks are pack hunters," I said. "Where there's a nest, there are usually three or four adults."
"I've read the reports."
"Reports don't convey what it feels like when your legs turn to stone while you're still conscious. I watched it happen to a friend during the northern campaigns."
"Then give me useful information instead of warnings." He didn't look up from his preparations. "Weaknesses. Behavioral patterns. Anything that helps."
I leaned against the doorframe. The boy reminded me of officers I'd served under—the competent ones, the ones who understood that fear and action weren't mutually exclusive.
"They hunt by ambush. Wait until prey is committed to a path, then emerge from concealment. The gaze works best at close range—ten feet or less. Beyond that, the effect is slower."
"How do I avoid the gaze?"
"You don't. Not reliably. Mirrors help somewhat—reflects the effect back—but most people can't fight while watching a reflection." I considered. "Fire distracts them. They're drawn to heat sources, probably related to their metabolism. And they're territorial—if you kill one, the others will investigate rather than flee."
"So I draw them out individually. Use fire as bait. Keep moving to avoid the gaze."
"In theory."
"In practice?"
"In practice, basilisks are faster than they look. If one gets close enough to establish eye contact..." I didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Finn finally looked up. His expression was calm—too calm, the kind of manufactured composure that came from refusing to acknowledge fear.
"Mira's handling operations while I'm gone. Viktor continues training. You coordinate with the guard contacts for any intelligence that might help." He buckled the sword belt. "If I'm not back in three days, assume the worst."
"And then?"
"Then you decide whether the Covenant of Blades dies with me or continues under new leadership." He met my eyes. "I'd recommend Mira. She understands the administrative side, and she has more potential than she realizes."
"He's made peace with dying. At fifteen years old, he's accepted the possibility of his death more completely than soldiers twice his age."
I wanted to argue. To tell him this was foolish, that money wasn't worth his life, that the guild could find another way.
But I'd been a soldier long enough to recognize when someone had made their decision. Arguments wouldn't change anything now.
"Come back alive, kid."
"That's the plan."
Finn's Perspective
The system interface glowed in the darkness of my quarters.
[GUILD SHOP - CONSUMABLES]
Minor Healing Potion (50 GP) - Restores 20% health over 10 minutes
Energy Restoration Tonic (75 GP) - Restores 100 energy instantly
Antidote (Common) (30 GP) - Cures basic poisons
I had 3,350 GP remaining after recent expenses. The shop offered items that could be converted to crowns—potions that worked without alchemy training, products impossible to obtain through normal means.
"Arbitrage. Buy with GP, sell for crowns. The system doesn't prevent it."
I purchased six Minor Healing Potions, spending 300 GP. The vials materialized in my hands—glass containers filled with crimson liquid that caught light like captured rubies.
[GP REMAINING: 3,050]
The next morning, I visited Aldous.
"These are healing potions," I said, setting three vials on his counter. "Genuine, functional, requiring no alchemical preparation. Apply to wounds or ingest for internal injuries."
Aldous examined them with professional skepticism. "The market for healing products is controlled by herbalists and mages. What makes these different?"
"Test them."
He pricked his finger with a letter opener—a small cut, barely bleeding. Dabbed a drop of potion on the wound.
The cut sealed within seconds. New skin forming over the injury like time running backwards.
Aldous's skepticism vanished. "How many do you have?"
"Three for sale. Fifteen crowns each, standard market price."
"I'll give you twelve each. Thirty-six total."
Normally I'd negotiate. Today, time mattered more than profit.
"Done."
The crowns changed hands. I left Aldous examining the remaining potions with undisguised fascination, already calculating how to market them to wealthy clients.
[CURRENT FUNDS: 9 crowns (36 received - 27 debt cleared)]
The math was still brutal. Nine crowns in hand, twenty-five needed for property payment, operational expenses continuing to accumulate. The potion sale had bought time, not salvation.
"The basilisk contract is still necessary. Fifty crowns solves everything."
I returned to headquarters to find Mira waiting in the main hall, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
"You sold potions. To Aldous. Where did you get healing potions?"
"Guild resources."
"We don't have guild resources for potions. We can barely afford bread."
"I have access to supplies others don't." I kept my voice level. "Call it a trade secret. The potions are legitimate, they work, and they generated thirty-six crowns we desperately needed."
"And the basilisk contract?"
"Still necessary."
"Finn—"
"Mira." I faced her directly. "I understand your concern. I share it. But the alternatives are worse. We either take high-risk contracts that pay well, or we lose everything we've built. The headquarters, the reputation, the people who've trusted us with their futures."
"Then let me come with you. Or Marcus. Or—"
"No. The novices need training, the members need contracts, and you need to keep this place running. I'm the only one expendable enough to risk on something this dangerous."
Her jaw tightened. The argument was far from over, but she recognized the same wall I'd seen in Tom's eyes. Decision made. Debate concluded.
"Three days," she said finally. "If you're not back in three days, I'm assuming command and sending search parties."
"Agreed."
"And Finn?" She stepped closer, voice dropping. "Don't die trying to save us money. We'd rather be poor and have you alive."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The words felt hollow even as I spoke them. The truth was simpler and harder: I would do whatever it took to keep the Covenant alive. Even if that meant dying for fifty crowns.
I left before dawn the next morning, the northern road stretching empty before me. Somewhere ahead, basilisks waited in their nest, turning travelers to stone and threatening everything we'd built.
Time to earn that fifty-crown reward.
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