Light streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, casting colors across the array of silver and gold cutlery laid out on the oversized table.

  Massive tapestries and oil portraits loomed overhead, watching in silence as the trio picked at the spread of meats, fruits, and delicacies before them.

  There was a timid knock at the grand doors, barely audible over the clinking of silverware.

  A head poked in, eyes scanning the room.

  Spotting Jericho cloaked in shadow near the corner, the servant hesitated—waiting for the priest’s approving nod before entering.

  He pushed a large cart ahead of him, bearing the next round of the meal.

  Jericho sighed internally at the extravagance. Tharumm preserve them all, but these nobles were insufferably superfluous.

  “Ah,” said Count Aldric Belmont of Duskwatch contentedly, smacking his lips and dabbing delicately at his chin with a silken napkin. “Nothing like roasted goat to start the day. We don’t see many of those in our part—have to buy pieces of the bloody thing, and it rots before it ever arrives.”

  His wife, countess Evelina Belmont sat beside him, sipping from a porcelain teacup with practiced grace.

  “I hear the rune witches have devised a new way to keep produce cold during voyages,” she said. “Another reason for Millford and WyrmShade to tighten their grip around our throats with their trade in soul stones.”

  Governor Reginald scoffed, pushing his plate away as though offended by the mere topic.

  “I would appreciate it,” he said coolly, “if we did not discuss those unnatural things under my roof. Thank the god we keep them on a short leash.”

  Jericho couldn’t help silently nodding in approval. To reshape the world—to tamper with its form—was sacrilege. The Church let Kaldris and the Free Cities keep their rune witches only so long as their creations remained controlled. God forbid another catastrophe arise from wild magic. The nomadic Mekhosh and their unchecked rituals were a constant threat

  The Count clapped his hands. “But of course, Reggie. Let’s talk of happier things—like money and iron.”

  Reginald’s eye twitched, but he held his composure. Jericho had told him for years to make the fool stop calling him that nickname, even in private. It degraded his station and gave the Count liberties the Church would deem unacceptable. Jericho would have another word with him after this meeting.

  The Countess’s eyes narrowed at the mention of money. The pair were made for each other—each just as likely to stab the other in the back for a single copper.

  “Our harvesting ended only a few months ago, and we did very well for ourselves this cycle,” Reginald said haughtily. “We have more than enough iron to share with DuskWatch and all the other cities.”

  There was a pause as the pair studied the governor, like vultures eyeing a limping mule.

  Finally, the Count said, “Well, I feel I must apologize in advance for the other cities. I heard about the loses you took as well. Im sure you would not begrudge a bit of extra help. We’ll be requiring five thousand kilograms of stone… and two hundred kilograms of iron.”

  The Countess simply smiled as Reginald began choking on a bite of honey-glazed quail he’d just picked up. Pine nuts spilled from the poultry as he hacked and coughed.

  “Surely I misheard you. Two hundred kilograms of iron? After our tithe to the Church and our donations to the Scourged Hand, we’ll barely have enough for our own people—let alone the other cities.”

  Jericho leaned on his cane as he stepped forward. “The governor is quite correct. To give up so much iron—and stone… What, precisely, are you building in DuskWatch that you need so much of both?”

  The visiting pair looked up at the old priest at the same time, as if they'd found something rotten beneath their fingernails. The Count gave a lazy flick of his hand, dismissing Jericho without so much as a word.

  “Nothing of import to the Church, priest. Our city is growing. It can no longer hold all of its people. We need to arm the Scourged Hand—as well as any available mercenaries—to deal with the increasing raids from the Northmen.”

  He glared up at Jericho, but his wife gently placed a hand over his.

  “What my husband means to say,” she said smoothly, “is that we understand the burden our request would place on others. With that in mind, we’re prepared to increase our offer. We’ll provide three bags of salt for every kilogram of stone or iron. Surely even an additional donation to the Church would assist with any difficulties?”

  Reginald’s eyebrows shot up. Even Jericho took a step back.

  Salt.

  Precious beyond measure in Lyvaris.

  When a Wellspring vanished, it didn’t just leave a hole in the ground. It took everything that stood upon it—land, structures, livestock, even people—gone without a trace. Nothing returned with the Wellspring’s reappearance. No bones. No tools. No life.

  The animals that did remain had either been hunted to the edge of extinction or tamed by desperate hands. But nothing born of a Wellspring reproduced in the world of Lyvaris. Not naturally.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Meat, fresh food—those were luxuries that could become famine when populations swelled too quickly. Being able to cure and store meat? That could mean the difference between survival and starvation for hundreds.

  Salt wasn’t just valuable.

  It was power.

  “Your city seems to be doing well for itself…” Jericho said slowly, his mind already grinding through the implications.

  If DuskWatch was drawing this much stone and iron, and planned to buy from the other two iron-producing cities as well, it would put strain on all of Kaldris. Resources would dry up. Projects would stall. And people would start asking questions.

  What in the gods’ names was happening at DuskWatch that required so much?

  More importantly—what was happening that they could afford it?

  The Countess’s smirk was all teeth.

  “Our people have found themselves… newly motivated,” she said. “We feel it’s only right, as its nobility, that we channel their efforts back into the city. Into its protection. Its prosperity.”

  Across from her, the Count was busy cramming violet jelly cubes—made from duskflower, Jericho noted—into his mouth. Through a sticky mouthful, he managed a garbled, “Don’ worry. Your tithe’ll be bigger too, leech.”

  Jericho’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Better to let it pass. He took a measured step back, folding his hands over his cane as he gave the floor back to Governor Reginald.

  Let the noble bleed himself in words. Jericho preferred the blade of silence.

  The Count smirked as he continued shoveling food into his mouth.

  “Don’t you worry, Reggie. We won’t bleed you dry. We’ll be speaking with Casper and Vivian in the coming weeks too. Wouldn’t want your little city to drop dead on us now.”

  “I… will discuss this with our scholars. I’ll see how much we can spare,” Reginald said slowly.

  The trio continued their meal, exchanging idle chatter while the rest of the room waited—silent, tense—for the visiting dignitaries to take their leave.

  Jericho shifted, rolling his shoulders. His back ached from standing still so long, tension winding tighter with every breath.

  Then the shriek came.

  It cut through the hall like a blade—sharp, high, unnatural.

  “Daddy!”

  The word was broken, feral, echoing off stone in a wail that clawed at the mind.

  “Daddyyy!”

  Jericho met the eyes of a servant near the wall. The boy flinched and bolted without a word. No one wanted to deal with her.

  Jericho sighed and offered a stiff nod—first to Governor Reginald, then to the Count and Countess.

  “By your leave, Lord Reginald. I’ll see what your daughter, Lady Penelope, requires.”

  Reginald only sighed in return, not even bothering to look up from the food he pushed pointlessly across his plate.

  Jericho turned without another word, shoved open the heavy double doors, and let them slam shut behind him with a thud that echoed like judgment.

  The corridor stretched ahead, tiled and echoing, lit by fractured light—stained glass bleeding color across the walls in twisted depictions of saints and sins.

  He’d just reached a crossing of halls when another scream ripped through the air, echoing from the left.

  He turned with a weary grunt.

  This wing was darker. Narrower windows. Narrower thoughts. His cane tapped a steady rhythm as he advanced, matching the shrieks of Lady Penelope.

  Gods above, but the spoiled little wretch could scream like a harpy. The world would be quieter—better—once she was gone.

  He reached her door and shoved it open with the end of his cane, stepping inside just as the girl—perched in her bed like some cursed idol—drew a breath for another wail.

  “Shut your blasted hole before I stick my fucking cane in it.”

  She coughed mid-breath, then stammered, “How dare you speak to me like—”

  Jericho slammed his cane against the wooden bed frame with a crack.

  “Your father is in the middle of important discussions with the nobility of Duskwatch. He is doing his best to care for you—and this miserable city.”

  His glare shifted to the maid cowering in the corner shadows.

  “And what exactly,” he growled, “seems to be the issue that our dear Mathilda couldn’t handle?”

  Mathilda flinched, wringing her hands under Jericho’s stare.

  “The lady was complaining of the heat, Brother Jericho. I told her I could fetch a cooling rune, but…”

  She trailed off as Lady Penelope screeched again.

  “Enough with your cooling runes and poultices and ice baths! I want my daddy! I can’t stand this heat!”

  Jericho exhaled slowly, feeling the pressure build behind his temples. Tharumm help them all, but this child was a problem.

  “There is nothing more your father can do,” he said flatly. “I’ll send for the high medic. Until then, you will remain in your chambers. We cannot have another instance of you tumbling down the front stairs in front of the masses.”

  Before she could cut in again Jericho spoke over her, to the corridor beyond.

  “Naethra come in please!”

  A young woman in burnt red robes came silently into the the room, nodding to Jericho in acknowledgment.

  As Jericho walked out the door past her he whispered, “Double the dosage. I will not hear hear again today.”