THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 8: FROSTMARK PROVINCE MEETING

Inside the frostbitten walls of Winterkeep, the northernmost fortress of Frostmark Province, the great hall is lit by fire and fury. Braziers roar beside stone pillars, casting long shadows upon the aged banners of House Thaloria and its forgotten cadet branches. Snow hisses softly against the arched glass windows, and the air, though warm by fire, still carries the bite of the land beyond.

At the center of this solemn place, Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria stands tall and sharp like a newly drawn sword. He wears black military garb trimmed in dark crimson and silver thread, the color of House Thaloria, though his sigil bears a frost viper coiled around a shattered crucifix, with fangs bared, his personal mark of defiance.

"To my subjects," he begins, voice like thunder behind velvet, polished yet unapologetically cruel. "And fellow residents of Frostmark, I’m sure you’ve heard of me already. I’m your Lord, and the trash Third Prince you whispered about over cold bread and failed harvests."

He paces before the long table, and the assembled commoners, knights, hunters, miners, and militia shift nervously, unsure if this is mockery or confession.

"Yes, I admit it," Cain continues. "There was a time I became the scum at the bottom of the royal chamber pot. Drunk. Vain. Idle. Unworthy of even your contempt. But that man is dead. And I’ve returned to dance upon his grave."

Gasps rise, quickly silenced by what follows. Cain raises his gloved hand, fingers taut with precision. "To prove it, I have taken Winterkeep by force. Wrested it from the soft-bellied cowards appointed by the Holy Church, the Crown Prince, and House Blackmoor. How? Simple. I slit their throats and buried their titles beside their bloated egos."

Silence. Then murmurs. One of the knights shifts uncomfortably, confirming in a hushed whisper, "It’s true. I saw it. All of it. Cain… gunned then down himself with his flintlocks and his musket.“

fires his flintlock pistol into the ceiling. Bits of old stone rain lightly onto the furs lining the floor. The crowd stills.

"Now that you’ve sobered up," Cain growls, "listen well. Each of you received a chest of gold under my seal. It isn't charity. It is a wager. A test. To see if you still had a spine left. That gold is just the beginning."

He pauses to let it sink in.

"You hate me. I know. For a week or two I ruled like a drunken fool while you froze and starved. But now those Church-appointed parasites are gone. Frostmark belongs to me. And I will drag this province into glory, kicking and screaming if I must."

There’s a fire behind his words, not the flickering bravado of a petty noble, but the cold certainty of a man with a plan forged in fire, failure, and fury.

"It won’t be easy," Cain says. "We will make enemies. The Holy Church will scream blasphemy. The Crown will demand obedience. House Blackmoor will likely send assassins next week. But I don’t give a rat’s frozen arse about them. I only ask for your support."

He turns to Sir Lucas Saville, a man carved from discipline and frost.

"Sir Lucas. These men and women have traveled far. Feed them. House them. Treat them as kin."

"Your command will be fulfilled, Your Highness."

Sir Lucas bows with the grace of a lion before barking orders. The hall begins to empty as the outpost representatives are led to rest. Cain remains. Alone now, he organizes the blueprints and items he'd conjured earlier, a dozen scrolls inked in pristine lines and technical detail. Relics from another life.

No sooner has he sat to rest than another procession enters: mages, merchant guild envoys, master craftsmen. A fusion of intellect, wealth, and arcane ambition.

They bow in unison. "We humbly greet Your Highness."

Cain waves a hand.

"Be at ease. I didn’t summon you here for curtsies. I summoned you because this province, this frozen pile of untapped wealth, is going to rise. With or without the permission of the gods and kings."

Claire Crawford, a fiery pyromancer with hair like liquid flame and the tongue of a tempest, steps forward.

"Then say what you must, Your Highness. We didn't ride through storms and wolves just to watch you pose."

Cain smirks. "I like you, Claire. You remind me of my old self, if he had any bite."

He gestures to the table. "These are the future of Frostmark. Behold."

Gasps and murmurs ripple. They crowd the table like bees to nectar. Steam-powered carriages. Non-stick cookware. Soap that doesn’t stink of goat piss. Modern plumbing. Airships that defy thunder.

"What are these?" someone whispers. "Magic-infused harvesters? Ships powered by fire and wind?"

"Yes," Cain says. "Every invention on that table can change your lives. Faster transport. Cleaner living. Trade routes that outpace the Crown’s own. Factories that produce what once took ten villages to make."

He lets the awe simmer.

In his mind, Cain smiles. Good. You’re hooked. Now bleed for it.

One merchant clears his throat. "It is impressive, Your Highness. But such development needs coin. Endless coin. Can you afford it?"

Cain leans forward.

"I’ve seized the assets of the former secretaries—the swine who gorged themselves while you starved. Their homes, their vaults, their side concubines’ jewelry. All going to auction. And if that’s not enough, I’ll pawn my title and bleed my own coin."

There is a heavy pause. Then a mage nods. "We’re interested. What are your terms?"

Cain’s eyes flash. Now the steel shows.

"Stop right there. You don’t dictate terms to me. You’re not in Starhaven anymore. You’re in Frostmark. And I am not your prince. I am your bloody storm."

He begins:

"One. Merchant guilds may establish branches in every outpost under my protection.

Two. You will employ the craftsmen and mages present. Fair wages. Benefits. And if I find out one of you so much as underpays a latrine sweeper, I will use your bones to stir soup.

Three. You shall protect the mages from Inquisitor persecution. If they come sniffing, kill them. If you deliver one dead or alive, I will pay you in gold and protection.

Four. A monthly tax of 40 Thalorian coins. And a 5% value tax on goods sold.

Five. Show results within a month. No profits? No permits.

Six. Sell only high-quality goods. I will have quality control inspectors. Fail once, pay 200 gold. Fail twice, you’re out.

Seven. Sanitation and safety. Maintain top standards or suffer closure, fines, and public shame."

He finishes. Silence falls.

Then, slowly, nods. Then bows. The merchants agree. The mages smile. The craftsmen look at Cain as one might look at a god of iron and fire.

And Cain? He watches them with the icy calm of a man who knows he’s playing a game where every piece belongs to him, with a mocking smile placed upon his lips, and his sharp viper eyes never missing a single small detail.

Let the Church rage, he thinks. Let the Crown plot. Frostmark will rise. And when the flames catch, I will be the one holding the torch.