The steward closed the door of the Silver Hand Guild’s meeting chamber with a soft thud, leaving Lord Aethelred and Maren alone in the big meeting chamber. The room has a dark, polished wood, a thick Myreian rug that swallowed sound, and tapestries showing mercantile triumphs. The chamber was cold and the only refreshment offered to them was the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting across the long table.Maren shifted on the hard, high-backed chair. Her gown, a deep emerald with sleeves that tapered to a tight fit at her wrists, was a masterpiece. The neckline was high, the bodice stiffened with bone, showing a silhouette that was both modest, and it hid everything.To distract herself from the uncomfortable dress she murmured to her father, “Father, We’ve waited for two hours. When he finally comes, I’ll press him directly about the Citadel. No flattery, no preamble. Men respect clarity.”Lord Aethelred brow furrowed. “Clarity can be mistaken for arr

The door slammed shut behind Elara, the sound echoing through the courtyard like a gunshot. Tears of pure, hot frustration blurred her vision. Before she could ran out of the House completely, she had heard her grandmother’s voice. “Alistair,” she said, her voice cold and clear. “Perhaps you should train your daughter better. She lacks… a proper behavior.” The word echoed in her skull, each one a tiny, precise stab. She wouldn’t be trained. She wouldn’t be bartered like a prize heifer at the market, unlike her simpering cousin Maren. 'F£ck you Arthur, it's all your fault. If I had married a man with high social ranking then Maren wouldn't be talking to me like that...' Elara hissed as her feet carried her across the damp cobblestones to the stables, the familiar scent of hay and horse offering a small comfort. Without a word to the stable boy, she saddled her reddish-brown horse, Lyra, and her movements was quick and angry as if taking it out on the horse. She swung herself

He swept a hand across his desk, sending quills, inkpot, and the parchments clattering to the floor. ”A half-built ship, no matter how grand its design, is terribly vulnerable to a sudden windstorm...” He muttered the first man words, the words hissing through clenched teeth. He walk back and forth, his fists opening and closing at his sides, nails digging into his palms.The door opened without a knock. Arthur looked up, his eyes shifting to see who was at the door. Only to see Lady Philippa stood there. She had a calm look. She had changed from her earlier dress she wore to the site into a gown of deep emerald green that made her look very fierce and drop-dead gorgeous. She closed the door with a soft click. Her gaze swept over the messy desk, the scattered parchments and ink, and then back at Arthur. If it was yesterday, she will be too scared to say anything to Arthur since he was the New Head but after following him to the new site, her opinion changed. She cleared her

Maren was lost in her fantasy. She inhaled deeply, the last lingering spray of her most precious perfume settling around her like a final, important piece of armour. It was a rare blend perfume from the Southern Isles, all exotic spice and dark amber. She could only use it during a very special occasions. And today seemed to be one of those special occasion. Her fingers, usually nimble and steady when counting coins or mending fine cloth, trembled slightly as she smoothed the dark emerald wool of her dress. It was her best dress. The only dress she owned that spoke of a high-born rather than shouting of a baker's daughter. The deep green of the dress brought out the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, or so her mother had always said. Today, she needed every advantage she could muster.A final look in the long silver mirror made her nod. To her, she looked very perfect. A baker's daughter, yes, but one of great value. Not a woman on the verge of losing a handsome gentleman. Wit

Arriving at free city, Rolf inhaled deeply as he stood at his Cousin’s door. Scoundrel Arthur! Wait and see what I will do to your b@stard @ss. Rolf pushed the heavy, splintered door open, the smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies hitting him like a physical blow. The city was a far cry from the simple, muddy lanes of Stonequay City.. This was the Free City, and everything here felt harder, louder, and sharper. He sighted Lysander Hawthorne immediately he stepped inside the big tavern. His cousin wasn’t hard to find.. He was the overall head here, in this chaotic House of the tavern’s back room. Lysander was a mountain of muscle and he is quiet a menace. Rolf’s initial burst of relief turned into something else, apprehension, maybe even fear as he saw the scene before him. He’d come for help, but the man before him looked more like the source of a bigger problem. Lysander and three of his men had a fourth man cornered near the cold hearth. The man was babbling, his words a f