The weeks passed in the capital, and Mero gradually regained his concentration, a fragile thread he had thought lost under the weight of his tumultuous thoughts. Winter was loosening its grip on the Imperial School of Mor, the snow melting into trickling streams that revealed the worn stone and damp earth under a hesitant sky. Spring was approaching, a gentle breeze wafting through the open windows of his room, carrying the scent of budding flowers and fresh herbs. One morning, as he was noting a maritime trade manual under the soft light filtering through his window, a servant knocked at his door, a sealed letter in hand. The red wax seal, stamped with a stylized ship, made his heart leap—it was the message he had been awaiting for months, the first fruit of his spice enterprise.
His fingers trembled as he broke the seal, and he unfolded the parchment with contained eagerness, the words dancing before his eyes like agitated waves. The spices of Sel, offered freely by his father to launch his trade, had reached the capital and sold at an exorbitant price—a profit thirty times his initial investment. He read the lines, a deep calm enveloping him like a still sea after a storm. This was not just a financial victory; it was tangible proof, an echo of his father's trust, a step towards the independence he had always pursued in the shadow of his rank.
Flashback: He remembered the docks of Sel, the golden light of the setting sun bathing the warehouses where his father had led him. The sacks of spices—saffron with fiery hues, cinnamon with a warm scent—were piled high under the calloused hands of the porters. "Take them, Mero," his father had said, his grave voice tinged with pride, a firm hand on his shoulder. "These are the riches of Sel. Show them what our kingdom can do." This gift, a treasure gathered from the distant fields battered by the winds, was not a simple gesture; it was a challenge, a seed thrown into the sand, and Mero had seized it with a determination he discovered within himself. Now, in this room far from the waves, that seed had germinated, its roots stretching all the way to the imperial capital.
This triumph ignited a new ambition in Mero, a fire he felt crackling under his skin. He envisioned a broader expedition—rare peppers from the southern archipelagos, cloves from the eastern lands, cardamom from hidden valleys—and maritime warehouses to anchor his influence beyond the borders of the Empire. But he knew his limits: his studies and duties at the school kept him here, invisible chains he bore with calculated patience. He delegated the execution to a trusted steward, while keeping the final decisions on expansion sites—a balanced strategy, born of an intuition he honed in the silence of his nights.
To solidify this vision, Mero sought a reliable advisor, a mind capable of grasping the subtleties of trade and the sea. One afternoon, a servant brought him Florent, a man of sober age and simple yet elegant attire, his piercing eyes scrutinizing the room with cold acuity. "Your Highness, I am Florent, your advisor for commercial development," he introduced himself, his voice measured like a precise calculation. "I have studied your projects—I am at your service." Mero invited him to sit near the table where a map of the Empire lay, its worn contours studied for hours, and after some pleasantries, the conversation delved into business.
"Your spices are triumphing here," Florent began, "but there are unexplored routes—the southern coasts, the archipelagos, the eastern lands rich in rare treasures. Which direction do you prioritize?" His gaze fixed on Mero, analyzing every nuance like a chess player. To test him, Mero pointed to the map hanging on the wall, its lines traced by imperial cartographers. "Look," he said, his voice calm but firm. "What is missing?"
Florent approached, scrutinizing the borders and ports with intense concentration, his fingers almost tracing the joined parchment. After a tense silence, he pointed to two zones. "The Sable-Gris archipelago is underexploited, despite its maritime resources," he said, his voice precise like a blade. "And the Montagnes des Ténèbres hide a strategic potential—rare minerals, discreet routes. Warehouses there would be judicious." Mero nodded, impressed but unsatisfied, a shadow passing in his eyes. "Well seen, Florent, but you missed the island of Mandarine—a key point for my plans. Thank you, you may leave."
Florent bowed, a gleam of respect in his gaze, and left the room without another word, his steps echoing softly on the polished parquet floor. Mero remained alone, staring at the map, the island of Mandarine shimmering in his mind like a distant lighthouse. It was not just a commercial location; it was a link with Mandarine, a living memory of their promises exchanged under the stars. Florent had seen the figures and the routes, but not the soul of his project. Mero knew he needed someone else—someone who understood not just trade, but also the waves, the men, and the serments woven in the salt.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
In the following days, Mero embarked on a discreet quest to find this ideal steward, scouring the taverns near the school, the bustling docks where merchants shouted their prices, and the narrow alleys where the murmurs of business mingled with the clinking of coins. He sought a spirit forged by the sea, someone who could grasp the audacity of his ambition while respecting the prudence of his roots. He interrogated innkeepers with calloused hands, merchants with shifty gazes, but none bore that spark he hoped for—until one evening, in a smoky tavern, the air thick with the scent of fried fish and stale beer, destiny guided him to a familiar face.
Téo entered, a simple yet robust figure, his missing arm replaced by a knotted cloth, his sharp gaze illuminating a face weathered by maritime winds. He was an old mate who had sailed with him on the routes of Sel, a boy with tousled hair, turned man by the force of circumstances. "Mero?" he said, an incredulous smile lighting up his features, his rough voice still carrying the echo of the waves. "By the winds, it's you!" Mero jumped up, a warm familiarity washing over him like a rising tide.
Flashback: He remembered the bridge of the inn on the pirate island, the mates sitting in a circle around a game of dice. The worn wood creaked under their feet, the air filled with the scent of salt and good rum. "If you know how to play, why not?" the red-haired rogue had said, tossing the carved dice into the center. Mero had sat among them, placing a piece of imperial copper, a modest gesture to gain their respect. The dice had rolled—4 and 2, then 6 and 5, and finally 3 and 2—and their laughter had burst out, light and complicit. "You're not like the other nobles," the boy with black hair had said, and Mero had responded with a promise: "If we become friends, you won't have to worry about eating." Téo was there, laughing with the others, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, and that night had sown a seed of loyalty that Mero was reaping today.
"I'm hiring you immediately," Mero said, his voice firm but filled with joy. "And find the other mates—those from the dice game, if they are free. I promised them a place, and I keep my word." Téo nodded, a gleam of recognition shining in his unique gaze. "Count on me, captain," he replied, a complicit wink sealing their pact. He stepped back into the smoky crowd, his assured stride belying his handicap, a figure who still carried the scent of the sea and the weight of their shared past.
The plan took shape under Téo's direction, a structure built stone by stone in discreet meetings in a back room of the tavern, the air thick with tobacco and murmurs. Mero wanted maritime warehouses—at the Sable-Gris archipelago to capture exotic spices and monitor commercial routes, at the Montagnes des Ténèbres to exploit their hidden resources, and in the kingdom of Grosbill to establish a foothold in a competitive market. Sable-Gris, despite its isolation, was an ideal springboard, its rugged ports ready to awaken under ships laden with saffron and pepper. The Ténèbres, difficult to access with their steep trails, promised rare minerals and medicinal plants, a wealth that only a daring logistics could reveal. Grosbill, more open but disputed, required well-placed warehouses and subtle alliances to prosper.
Mero confided these ambitions to Téo with a clear directive, a hand on his shoulder in the smoky dimness. "Take your time," he said, the scent of beer floating between them. "Nothing presses—only success counts." Téo agreed, a fierce determination in his gaze, an echo of that night on the inn's bridge where he had shared dice and laughter with his comrades. "I will find the other mates," he said, his voice rough but assured. "We will build this together, as you promised." He left the table, his steps echoing on the worn planks, and Mero felt a surge of pride wash over him—this was not just an enterprise, it was a honored serment, a bond forged in camaraderie and the waves.
In the following days, Téo returned with news, his steps echoing in the school's corridors like a reminder of their voyages. "I found the mates from the dice game," he said, a smile in his voice, the scent of salt still clinging to his clothes. "They are ready—they remember you, captain, and they want to return that trust." Mero felt a warmth spread through him, a soft but deep pride. "While they take their time," he replied, a hand on Téo's shoulder, "we will build this well, together—as I promised."
Their plan was unfolding—Sable-Gris would become an outpost for rare spices, the Ténèbres a challenge to uncover hidden treasures, Grosbill an arena to prove their worth. Each warehouse would be a stone in the edifice of his enterprise, a seed planted in the wind of Sel, carried by men he had come to know around a game of dice. Mero sat near his window, the map spread before him, and murmured to himself: "We will go far, as I promised." Spring was blossoming outside, and with it, a nascent empire, built on trust and the waves.
