I. The Disarming of the Gilded
The massive iron gates of Obsidios Iubeo stood open, but the way was barred by the Raven Legion.
Obsidian Marshall Garrus Vane looked at the fifty elite Gold-Cloaks. These were men who wore their wealth on their armor, mercenaries who fought for the highest bidder.
"You may enter to rest and eat," Garrus announced, his voice carrying the absolute weight of command. "But in the Imperium, only the sworn carry steel. Disarm."
It was an insult that would have caused a war in the Union. Here, under the crushing psychological weight of the Obsidian Ordo and the silent stare of a thousand Legionnaires, the Gold-Cloaks hesitated, then broke. One by one, they unbuckled their gilded swords and expensive daggers, piling them onto a cart. They were stripped of their authority, reduced to hungry men in fancy clothes.
Garrus nodded to a Captain. "Escort them to The Black Hearth. Feed them. Let them see."
Grand Auditor Rhett Levin, clutching his rod of office (his only remaining shield), was separated from his guards. He would walk the path to the Keep alone, forced to witness the economy he had come to liquidate.
II. The Economy of the Raven
Levin walked down the main thoroughfare. The paving stones were seamless, obsidian-fused slate that absorbed the sound of his boots.
He stopped at a butcher's stall. The display was shocking. In Aurum, meat was a luxury, often salted heavily to hide the rot. Here, the butcher—a massive man with the Raven Mark on his neck—was carving a side of beef that defied anatomy.
The meat was dark, a rich crimson-purple, dense with nutrients. The bones, exposed by the cleaver, shimmered with a metallic, graphite sheen. This was livestock raised on the Dark Harvest—animals that had grazed on obsidian-influenced grain.
Levin watched a transaction. A woman approached the counter. She did not open a purse of gold coins. She produced a small, leather pouch and withdrew a rectangular metal ingot, roughly the size of a thumb.
Levin squinted. It was not gold. It was iron, but it pulsed with a faint, internal violet light. Stamped into the center was the Raven, wings spread.
"What is that?" Levin demanded, his curiosity overriding his arrogance.
The butcher looked up, his knife pausing. "A Low-Mark, Auditor. Iron fused with a single drop of Obsidian essence. It represents one day of skilled labor."
He pointed to a small box where other rectangles sat—some of bright copper, others of cold steel, and a few of pure, heavy silver, each glowing with varying intensities of purple light depending on the level of Obsidian infusion.
"We do not trade on the promise of gold," the butcher said, handing the woman a heavy parcel of meat. "We trade on the stored value of Order. This ingot cannot be forged, shaved, or debased. Its value is the magic inside it."
Levin stared. It was a currency that was physically tied to the ruler's power. It was an economy that could not be inflated or stolen by foreign banks. It was terrifyingly stable.
III. The Black Hearth (The Tavern)
While Levin continued his grim march to the Keep, his Gold-Cloaks were led into The Black Hearth.
It was not a tavern in the Union sense—a dark, cramped room reeking of sour ale and desperation. It was a massive, communal longhall built of polished obsidian brick. The ceiling was high, supported by stone pillars, venting smoke through intricate chimneys. Long, wooden tables ran the length of the room, seating hundreds.
It was crowded, but there was no drunken brawling. Legionnaires in half-armor sat next to masons covered in stone dust. Weavers from the Hall of Obsiaven sat with tanners. The air was filled with the low, steady hum of idle chatter—not complaints about taxes or fear of the night, but discussions of quotas met, walls built, and the safety of their children.
The Gold-Cloaks were seated at a table near the fire. They looked around, uneasy. They were used to being hated. Here, they were ignored, treated as guests who had not yet earned their keep.
Then, the food arrived.
Servers brought out massive platters of Obsidian-influenced roast. The beast—a massive boar hunted in the southern woods—had been roasted whole. The skin was crackling and dark, the meat falling off the bone. Loaves of the heavy, dark bread were piled high, alongside tankards of a thick, dark ale brewed from the metallic wheat.
A Gold-Cloak captain picked up a rib. He took a bite, and his eyes widened. The flavor was intense, rich, and invigorating. He could feel the energy of the food hitting his blood, warming him against the pervasive chill of the Ordo.
"This..." he whispered to his lieutenant. "This is better than what the High Minister eats."
"Look at them," the lieutenant replied, gesturing to a group of off-duty Legionnaires. "They aren't mercenaries. They're... happy."
The Gold-Cloaks ate in silence, their loyalty to the Union eroding with every bite. They realized that in Aurum, they fought for the chance to buy scraps. In Obsidios Iubeo, the "slaves" feasted like kings.
IV. The Shadow of the Keep
Outside, Levin approached the end of the street. The Second Observa Tower loomed over him, the Void Stone pulsing. He felt small. He felt poor.
He realized he was carrying a ledger of debts into a city that had abolished the concept of debt. He walked toward the massive doors of the Keep, no longer an Auditor coming to collect, but a ghost walking into the real world.
The doors groaned open, revealing the Hall of Judgment.