CH1020 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1020: Release Day

Victor sat in the private room above the tavern’s noise and read through the last page of his trade bills.

The room was worth the cost. Woolen carpet on the floor, a heated brick bed beneath the soft couch, the warmth radiating up through his feet in a way that made the Months of Demons feel like an inconvenience rather than a siege. The tavern had installed a movable wooden table at his request—low enough to work from the couch, solid enough to hold the papers flat. A plate of roasted chicken breast slices sat at his left hand. A cup of dark purple Chaos Drinks on the right: ten gold royals for the combination, not counting the taste. He spent that sum without thinking about it. Physical comfort was the oldest habit a Lothar son developed, and it was not something he had ever examined closely enough to question.

He closed the sheepskin notebook and lifted the drink. In the candlelight the liquid was the dark red of a fine garnet.

The bills were troubled. They had been troubled for a while.

The Western Region gemstone supply had dried up. The war for the throne had reshaped the entire market—cities damaged, noble domains dissolved, the demand for luxury goods dropping as the people who had bought luxury goods ceased to be the people they had been. To maintain his old profit margins he would have to increase volume. But without gemstones, his craftsmen had no material to work with, and the gemstones had all gone somewhere he couldn’t follow.

He had been to the Longsong Area several times. Every mine occupied. All of them by Roland Wimbledon, who had decided to consolidate the region’s mineral wealth the moment he announced the construction of Neverwinter. That was simply how lords behaved—Victor had no complaint about the principle of it. What frustrated him was the destination. The gemstones moved out of the Border Area and then vanished. There was not a single jewelry shop in Neverwinter. He had looked.

The king was apparently not interested in selling gemstones. He was apparently not interested in the jewelry trade at all. He was not using the resource to generate income in any way that Victor could identify, which was unusual enough in a lord that it had begun to feel like a signal rather than an oversight.

He had also tried selling jewelry here directly, with equally poor results. Jewelry moved to noble families who needed to demonstrate wealth at banquets. There were no noble families in Neverwinter. It was, genuinely, the only major city he had visited in which he could not find a single person interested in purchasing something that cost dozens of gold royals.

He had been coming here for months and the trade balance on his sheepskin notebook showed a consistent deficit.

The train had changed his thinking. Watching that first demonstration two months ago—the scale of the machinery, the speed, the obvious implication of what it meant for freight and travel—he had understood immediately that something permanent had shifted. Not a trend. A threshold. The future had arrived in Neverwinter before it had arrived anywhere else, and if he wanted to be ahead of the next thing rather than catching up to it, Neverwinter was where he needed to be.

The question was what he was supposed to do here, given that the industry the future had produced appeared to have no use for anything he offered.

He was not short of money. He could live without working and die comfortable. But he could not let those who coveted the Lothar family and Black Money see him idle. His father had built something. Victor needed to show he could build something too.

He was still turning the problem over when the floor shifted.

The noise from downstairs had erupted into something beyond the normal volume of an evening crowd—not a fight, not a disturbance, but a kind of concentrated excitement that came with collective discovery. Too early for the after-dinner rush. Something had happened.

He pulled the bell cord.

The maid appeared quickly, slightly flushed from climbing stairs. The moment the door opened the noise below became fully audible: someone reading aloud, and a crowd responding.

“What’s going on down there?”

“I’m sorry, Sir—have they been bothering you?” She pressed her hands together with the apologetic grace of a well-trained hospitality worker. “Please forgive the noise. It’s release day for the newspaper. They’re crowding to buy copies.”

“News—paper?”

“His Majesty announced it a week ago. It replaces the bulletin boards in the square. Everyone has been anticipating it.” She smiled with genuine excitement. “We’ve all been waiting to see what it would actually be.”

Victor set down the Chaos Drinks. “How much does one copy cost?”

“Ten bronze royals, I was told.”

“Buy one for me—no, buy ten.”

“Yes, Sir.” She turned and went downstairs. She came back quickly, breathing harder than the stairs alone accounted for.

“Sir—all the copies have sold out.”

He looked at her. “Already?”

“Yes, Sir.”

That’s a remarkable rate of sale for a product that costs ten bronze royals. “Find someone who bought one. I don’t care what they want for it.”

He flipped a gold royal at her. “Keep whatever’s left if you can get it.”

Seven minutes later she returned with six folded papers in a grey-white color—and a hesitant expression that told the rest of the story before she spoke.

“The price had risen to twenty silver royals each. I’m sorry, Sir. I did my best…”

She had also kept most of the gold royal, which her face acknowledged without her saying anything directly about it. He didn’t care. He turned the papers over in his hands, running his thumb along the fold.

“What’s your name?”

“Tinkle, Sir.”

“Keep the change.” He spread one copy open on the low table. “And if you have some time—would you like to read this with me?”

She was young. Slightly flushed from the running, small beads of sweat at her nose tip, the particular vitality of someone who lived in the city they worked in and actually wanted to know what was in the newspaper before the customer asked about it. He had met too many aristocratic women who had been taught to modulate every expression into something appropriate. This girl hadn’t been taught any of that yet.

“Sir…” She dropped her gaze. A faint color crept into her cheeks. After a moment she bit her lip—deciding—then nodded, barely above a whisper. “I’d like to.”

“Then thank you for the company.” He patted the cushion beside him and reached for the paper.

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