Klaus remained where he was, slouched in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, posture loose to the point of disrespect. His boot hooked lazily around a table leg, rocking it just enough to whisper against the floor.
Shane stood across from him.
Straight-backed. Still. The kind of stillness that wasn't relaxed, but controlled—like a drawn blade waiting for permission to fall.
Shane broke the silence first. "Anything else?"
Klaus didn't answer immediately. His eyes traced the ceiling beam, then drifted back to Shane. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, lazy but sharp underneath.
"How's your plan doing?" he asked.
Shane's brow barely shifted. "Plan?"
Klaus chuckled softly. "Don't play dumb with me, Shane. We both know everything until now went exactly how you wanted."
Shane held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned and walked past Klaus, boots measured against the floor, stopping by the narrow window at the side of the room.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Shane said.
Klaus leaned forward at last, elbows resting on his knees. The chair creaked under the shift, loud in the empty room.
"Then let me simplify it for you," he said calmly. "You didn't build this party just to rob a few merchant rivals. That's pocket change to someone like you. You've had a target from the very beginning."
Shane didn't turn around.
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind brushing against the windowpane.
"You're sharper than what they say," Shane said at last. He exhaled, slow and controlled. "You're right. I do have a target."
Klaus tilted his head.
"The Warhogs," he said, tone light, almost bored. "Am I wrong?"
Shane didn't answer.
He remained by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the strip of blue sky framed by weathered wood. A cloud drifted past, slow and unhurried—mocking, in its own way.
Klaus let out a soft whistle. "Thought so."
It wasn't subtle—at least not to Klaus.
Their operations followed a clear pattern. They never hit caravans at random or bothered with grain wagons and civilian goods. Every raid was deliberate and profitable: convoys carrying gold reserves, celestial-grade weapons, enchanted materials, and auction-grade artifacts.
And almost all of it traced back to Warhog interests.
In Crowvale, Shane hadn't dismantled the Warhogs through force or open conflict. He'd done it like a true businessman. Treasure and weapon shipments never arrived, contracts quietly collapsed, and merchants pulled out their investment without knowing why. One by one, Warhog-backed ventures withered and withdrew from the province, leaving no single incident that could be challenged directly.
Shane wasn't raiding to survive, and it wasn't simple greed either. He was executing a calculated economic strangulation—bleeding a Duke's family business dry without ever touching a storefront.
What unsettled Klaus wasn't Shane's competence.
It was the response.
The Warhogs did nothing unusual—only official investigations into the raids, routine patrol increases, and proper paperwork. As for their internal business moves, Klaus couldn't tell. He wasn't a businessman. But even he could see this much: either they hadn't realized who was gutting them… or they had, and were waiting.
Shane finally spoke, still facing the sky.
"Do you know why I recruited you?"
Klaus shrugged. "You assumed I hated them, too?"
Shane shook his head once. "No."
He turned slightly, enough for Klaus to catch the hard line of his jaw.
"I recruited you because I know your strength," Shane said. "And because I knew I could use it."
Klaus's smile thinned. "Straightforward. I'll give you that."
He tapped a finger against his temple. "Merchant's Appraisal?" he said casually. "Didn't expect that skill of yours would work on people."
Shane finally looked at him.
"Value isn't limited to goods," he said evenly. "Neither is threat."
The words settled into the room like dust after a collapse. The faint hum of the Silent Veil pressed in, thick enough that Klaus could hear the slow creak of old wood cooling beneath the window.
Klaus leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. He folded his hands behind his head, posture loose, almost bored—but his eyes kept drifting, tracing corners, doorframes, reflections on the glass.
"So," he drawled, "you recruited all of us because we're useful." A beat. "That's… flattering. In a very disposable sort of way."
For the first time, Shane's expression softened—only slightly. Not warmth. Recognition.
"They look mismatched," he said. "Loud. Reckless. Overcautious. Inexperienced." His gaze slid to the empty chairs, lingering as if their owners still occupied them. "But balanced. Every flaw covered by another. To me, that's a perfect squad."
Klaus let out a quiet huff. "Perfect pawns."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Aren't you worried they'll turn on you? No matter how loyal a dog is, sometimes it bites the hand that feeds it."
Shane didn't blink. "I have ways of dealing with that."
Klaus studied him now, the humor draining from his eyes. "You didn't just know our strengths," he said slowly. "You knew our weaknesses."
A pause.
"Smart," Shane replied.
Klaus's lips twitched. "Then you know mine too."
Shane answered without hesitation. "Gold."
Klaus pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm wounded. Truly. How did you ever deduce that?"
A faint smile ghosted across Shane's face. "I really didn't need to use my skill to know it. You're too greedy. Everyone knows it. You don't even hide it well."
The silence stretched. Klaus straightened, the slouch easing just enough to reveal intent beneath the laziness.
"I'll play your piece," he said calmly. "As long as you're willing to meet my price."
Shane studied him in silence. Then, "How much is your loyalty?"
Klaus spread his hands. "Haven't decided yet." His easy smile returned, unreadable as ever. "I'll let you know when I do."
Shane held Klaus's gaze for a moment longer, measuring him the way he measured routes, margins, and acceptable losses. The silence between them wasn't tense—it was transactional.
"Then we're agreed," Shane said at last.
Klaus tilted his head. "Sounds like it."
Shane stepped closer and extended his hand.
The gesture was plain. Honest. Dangerous.
Klaus stared at it for half a breath, then straightened fully. The lazy slouch slipped away as he reached out and clasped Shane's hand. Their grip was firm, brief, deliberate—no dominance, no warmth. Just confirmation.
"Partners," Shane said.
"I'll be in your care then, boss," Klaus replied lightly.
They were released at the same time.
Klaus pushed his chair back, the wood scraping softly against the floor. He rolled his shoulders, as if shrugging off the weight of the conversation. "I'll take my leave, then. Got preparations to make. Try not to miss me."
Shane didn't answer. He was already turning away, attention drifting back to the sky above.
Klaus paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Oh," he added without looking back, "don't worry. I'll deliver."
Then he was gone, the door closing with a muted click.
Left alone, the room felt larger. Quieter.
Shane exhaled slowly and reached into his coat, drawing out a silver pocket watch worn smooth at the edges. He flipped it open with practiced ease. The ticking was steady. Relentless.
His thumb brushed the glass.
"It'll be soon, Dad," he murmured, voice low and tight. "I'll punish them with my own hands."
He snapped the watch shut.
A block away from the tavern, Klaus slowed his steps. He stopped beneath a crooked lantern. He glanced back once, toward the building he'd just left.
A slow smile spread across his face—sharp, pleased, unmistakably dangerous.
"Looks like everything's working," he whispered to himself, "just as planned."