Lord Vale arrived exactly seventeen minutes late to the Commerce Guild meeting—not so tardy as to be insulting, but just enough to ensure everyone else was already seated. The power move was unnecessary; his presence commanded the room regardless.

  The Grand Chamber of the Commerce Guild stretched beneath arched ceilings of hammered copper and iron, its massive oval table surrounded by twenty-six uncomfortable chairs designed to keep meetings efficient. Ironweave's most influential merchants occupied them, their wealth displayed through subtle signals—a quality of fabric here, an unusual gemstone there. Nothing gaudy. That would be uncouth.

  The scribe's pen scratched across parchment, recording minutes with mathematical exactitude as Guild Master Farrow droned through quarterly tax adjustments.

  "The Council has increased import duties on Calishite silks by three percent, resulting in projected revenue increases of approximately..."

  Vale let the words wash over him, his attention on the financial reports spread before each guild member. Numbers told more honest stories than people ever did. His fingers, pale and unnaturally long, traced column after column of figures.

  Seventeen trade disputes resolved. Four hundred twenty-three new business registrations. Seventy-two violations of commerce regulations. Each number a story, each story an opportunity.

  "Moving to new legislation," Farrow continued, flipping to a fresh page. "The Council has approved standardized weights and measures for all marketplaces, to be implemented by next quarter. Implementation costs will be distributed according to registered revenue brackets."

  "Again?" Barton Greaves from the Distillers Guild slapped the table. "We just changed our barrels last year. This is pure extortion."

  "The vote was unanimous, Barton." Farrow didn't look up from his papers. "Take it up with your Council representative."

  Vale watched the expressions around the table. Greaves was posturing, nothing more. The man had been complaining about regulations for thirty years while quietly profiting from each one. The more interesting reaction came from Merrick Coldstone, whose jewelry empire spanned three districts. The dwarf's eyes had narrowed at the mention of implementation costs—a sign his declared revenues might not match reality.

  Worth investigating later.

  Farrow cleared his throat. "Next item: business district zoning adjustments. Lower Merchant's End has been reclassified from provisional to established status, resulting in adjusted taxation schedules for twenty-seven businesses..."

  "Including that new furniture shop," Ellwick Mornis interjected, his fat dwarven fingers drumming against his protruding belly. "The one that's all the rage with nobles lately. What's it called?"

  "Mimic & Co.," supplied Tabitha Reid, her wire-framed spectacles glinting in the lamplight. "Quite the success story. From opening to waitlists in less than a season."

  Vale's expression remained perfectly neutral as conversation diverted toward the upstart business. His assistant watched him carefully from the shadows behind his chair, ready to note any reaction.

  "Don't they rent lanterns?" Graston Haverhill asked, the orc's massive frame spilling over his specially reinforced chair. Sweat beaded on his green forehead despite the room's mild temperature. "My wife's sister hired some for her daughter's engagement celebration."

  "They've expanded," Reid replied. "Chairs, sofas, tables—all with some proprietary crafting method that makes them perfectly suited to the individual customer."

  "My daughter acquired one of their chairs," Haverhill nodded. "Claims it's the only thing that doesn't aggravate her condition. Paid a full gold piece for it."

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Vale's finger paused on the page, the only indication he was listening.

  "A gold for a chair?" Merrick snorted. "Hope it massages her feet too."

  "Full waiting list for their dining sets," Reid continued. "Three-month delay currently. My sources say they're considering expanding to a second location."

  "Getting nervous, Vale?" Greaves grinned, yellowed teeth flashing. "Might put a dent in your furniture empire."

  Every eye turned toward Vale, who looked up with practiced disinterest.

  "The furniture market accommodates many players," he said, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the room. "Innovation is the lifeblood of commerce."

  "Innovation indeed," Haverhill chuckled. "My daughter swears the chair actually adjusts itself when she sits. Marketing nonsense, obviously, but whatever they're doing, customers are noticing."

  "Their registration paperwork was impeccable," Farrow noted, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to official business. "All fees paid promptly, proper commercial licenses acquired within the first month. None of the usual startup irregularities."

  "Suspiciously perfect, one might say," Vale observed, allowing the barest lift of one eyebrow.

  "Suspicion of success is unbecoming, Vale," Greaves jabbed. "Perhaps they simply understand customer needs better than established enterprises."

  Vale answered with a smile that never reached his eyes. "Understanding customers has never been my concern, Greaves. Understanding markets, however..." He let the statement hang.

  "The evaluation period for new businesses concludes next quarter," Farrow interjected firmly. "Formal competition analyses will be available then. Now, regarding the proposed extension of trading hours in the Night Market..."

  The discussion moved on, attention shifting away from Mimic & Co. as quickly as it had focused on it. Vale's expression betrayed nothing, his pale features a mask of polite interest as the meeting progressed through seventeen more agenda items.

  Only his assistant noticed how the edge of the financial report had crumpled between his fingers.

  When the meeting concluded ninety-seven minutes later, Vale was the first to stand, gathering his papers with precise movements.

  "Your carriage is waiting, my lord," his assistant murmured, materializing at his elbow.

  Vale nodded once, a nearly imperceptible movement. He exchanged precisely measured pleasantries with three guild members whose support he required for an upcoming vote, then moved toward the exit with measured steps.

  Graston Haverhill intercepted him at the door, his bulk blocking the narrow exit.

  "My daughter speaks very highly of that shop," the orc said, lowering his voice. "Says the young men running it remind her of how merchants used to be. Passionate about their craft."

  "How delightful for her," Vale replied. "I'm pleased she found something to ease her condition."

  "She asked if you'd visited yet. Thought it might interest you."

  Vale's smile thinned. "I make it a policy never to visit competitors directly. Conflicts of interest can be so... messy."

  "Not afraid of a little competition, are you?" Haverhill's laugh boomed through the chamber, drawing glances.

  "Competition implies similar offerings, Haverhill. I deal in furniture. From what I gather, Mimic & Co. deals in... experiences."

  Vale stepped around the orc with fluid grace, his assistant falling into step behind him.

  "Experiences don't last, Vale," Haverhill called after him. "But quality furniture does."

  Vale didn't break stride as he descended the guild's marble steps. His carriage waited exactly where it should, the black lacquered surface gleaming in the afternoon sun. The door opened as he approached.

  "The usual route?" his assistant asked, notebook ready.

  "No," Vale replied, his voice carrying no emotion whatsoever. "Take us past Lower Merchant's End. I wish to see this... innovation... for myself."

  His assistant made a note, then climbed into the carriage after him.

  As the wheels began to turn, Vale gazed out the window, his reflection ghostly against the glass. Somewhere in the city, two young merchants were building something unexpected, something that had caught the attention of Ironweave's elite. Something that had customers paying gold for chairs.

  Interesting.

  The carriage turned onto the main thoroughfare, moving at precisely the speed Vale preferred. His expression remained perfectly composed, revealing nothing of his thoughts—not to his assistant, not to the guild, and certainly not to himself.

  Numbers told stories. And these numbers warranted closer inspection.