The gates of Morris rose ahead of them, thick stone walls streaked with age and weather, banners of the Lukevale Kingdom snapping in the wind above the ramparts. Merchant carts and mercenary wagons crowded the road leading in, wheels grinding over packed dirt, horses snorting and shifting under the midday sun. Viktor sat at the front of his own procession, six wagons deep, and allowed himself a small breath as the fortress city finally came into view.
The line to enter moved slower than he would have liked. Guards at the checkpoint inspected cart after cart, waving some through and pulling others aside for closer searches. Viktor's six wagons, each one loaded with obsidian and hidden beneath plain white cloth, sat near the back of the queue, drawing no more attention than any other merchant train.
If they knew what was under these covers, Viktor thought, watching a guard wave through a wine merchant two carts ahead, they'd probably clear the road for me. But I can't afford that kind of attention. Not yet. Not until I'm standing in front of the guild master himself. He kept his expression neutral, hands folded behind his back, patient as the line crept forward one wagon at a time.
Half an hour later, his procession finally passed through the gates and into the city proper. Morris was larger than he'd expected, sprawling and orderly, its streets lined with barracks and watchtowers. Knights in polished armor patrolled in pairs, and mercenary bands lounged outside taverns, sharpening blades or comparing scars. As the westernmost stronghold of the Lukevale Kingdom, Morris served as the kingdom's first line of defense, and it showed in every corner of the city, from the reinforced walls to the sheer density of armed men wandering its streets.
The Trade Guild building wasn't hard to find. It stood tall and imposing near the city's commercial district, its stone facade carved with the guild's emblem, surrounded by a wide paved courtyard already crowded with merchant wagons and traders haggling over goods. Viktor drew his procession to a halt at the edge of the courtyard and turned to his men.
"Keep the wagons covered. No one touches that cloth, no one so much as peeks underneath. Understood?" His men nodded, taking up positions around the six carts like a quiet wall of bodies. Satisfied, Viktor reached into the lead wagon and retrieved a small wooden box, just large enough to hold a single sample of obsidian. He tucked it under his arm and made his way toward the main building alone, leaving the rest of his cargo hidden behind him.
Inside, the guild hall buzzed with the low murmur of business, merchants haggling at counters, clerks scribbling in ledgers. Viktor approached the front desk, box in hand, ready to state his business to the receptionist. But before he could open his mouth, a familiar voice cut through the noise from somewhere behind him, dripping with false warmth.
"Well, well, well. Isn't this Viktor?" The voice belonged to a heavyset man with pale blond hair, dressed in fine merchant's robes that strained slightly at the buttons. Viktor turned slowly and recognized him at once — an old rival from Balan, one who'd since relocated to Burner and, judging by his clothes, done rather well for himself. The man's smile was thin and cruel. "The same Viktor who used to come begging to me back in Balan? My, my. How the mighty have fallen. Tell me, how have things been treating you?"
A ripple of laughter and murmurs spread through the hall almost instantly. Heads turned. Voices dropped into whispers just loud enough to carry.
"Wait, isn't Balan basically ruined now? He's probably here to borrow money."
"Look at that little box he's carrying — bet that's his wife's jewelry. Poor man's probably pawning it just to eat." Snickers followed, quiet but unmistakable, rippling through the merchants and clerks who'd stopped their business to watch.
Viktor said nothing. He simply stood there, back straight, expression calm, the same stillness Fragha so often wore when facing down fools who thought insults could shake him.
Then the Guild Master himself emerged from a side office, drawn by the commotion, and added his own smirk to the pile. "Ah, so this is the man everyone's laughing about. Come to sell scraps, have you? We don't have time to waste on—"
Viktor didn't respond to any of it. He simply walked forward, set the small wooden box on the nearest counter, and opened the lid.
The lamplight in the hall caught the obsidian inside and scattered across its surface in dark, glittering fractures, deep black shot through with faint threads of violet light, the unmistakable residue of concentrated mana. It wasn't ordinary stone. Anyone with even passing knowledge of materials could see that at a glance.
The room went silent.
The Guild Master's smirk died on his face. He stepped closer, almost stumbling in his haste, and pulled a small appraisal device from his coat with trembling hands. He ran it over the obsidian's surface, watched the readings shift, and felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Obsidian of this purity wasn't something you found lying around. Deposits like this existed only in the deepest, most dangerous mines in the kingdom, guarded and fought over by the strongest guilds. Not in some backwater village. Not in the hands of a merchant everyone in the room had just been mocking.
"I— forgive me," the Guild Master stammered, face flushing red as he straightened up. "I spoke out of turn. Please, allow me to offer you the finest price this guild can provide for this material."
Viktor allowed a faint, knowing smile. "Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private."
The Guild Master nodded quickly and gestured him toward his office, practically herding him through the hall past the now-silent crowd of onlookers. Once the door shut behind them, though, the man's confidence crept back in, just enough for him to try lowering the price.
"Now, given that this is only one crate," he began, folding his hands over his desk, "I'm afraid I can only offer—"
Viktor laughed, a short, sharp sound that cut the man off mid-sentence. "One crate? Is that what you think this is?" He rose from his chair and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard, gesturing outside with an open palm. "Take a look for yourself."
Confused, the Guild Master followed him to the glass and peered down into the courtyard below.
What he saw made him freeze.
Six wagons stood in neat rows across the paving stones, every one of them stacked high with obsidian, the white cloth coverings now pulled away to reveal the full weight of what Viktor had brought. Gasps rippled through the courtyard below as nearby merchants and guards caught sight of the haul, murmurs rising into a low roar of disbelief.
Viktor's smile sharpened at the corner of his mouth. You underestimated me. That was your mistake.
Down in the crowd, his old rival from Balan stood frozen, jaw tight, eyes burning with something far uglier than surprise. How does a man like him get his hands on this much obsidian? the man thought bitterly, fists clenching at his sides. There's no way this is clean. Something's not right here. I'll find out what you're hiding, Viktor. Mark my words.
Back in the office, the Guild Master had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead as the reality of the situation sank in. Without further hesitation, he agreed to purchase the entire shipment on the spot, naming a price far higher than what he'd first offered, practically falling over himself to secure the deal.
Viktor accepted, but he wasn't finished. "One more thing," he said, tone shifting into something more businesslike. "I'm looking for an old man. Goes by Helmut. Works at a bar somewhere in the city. Do you know him?"
The Guild Master frowned, searching his memory for a long moment, brow furrowed in concentration. Then recognition flickered across his face, and he nodded, scribbling something down on a scrap of paper before sliding it across the desk. "Yes, I know the place. Here, this should lead you to him."
Viktor took the paper and tucked it into his coat alongside the promise of payment, satisfied. Not long after, he walked out of the Trade Guild with several wagons now filled with gold instead of stone, carefully covered once more to avoid drawing unwanted eyes, and the address of Helmut resting safely in his pocket, exactly as Ivan had instructed.