The Grand Guild Hall was packed. Anya found a seat near the back, the old wooden bench groaning under her weight.
The air smelled of generations. Of old lamp oil and polished stone and the sweat of countless debates.
This place has a soul. You can feel it.
But a new scent cut through the history. A sharp, ozone tang. Like lightning about to strike.
At the front, Gareth stood on the dais. He didn't need a gavel. His presence was enough. The murmuring crowd quieted.
"Friends," he began. His voice was calm. Reasonable. "We've grown. And growth brings new problems."
A flick of his wrist. A complex, geometric rune flared to life above him.
Cold, blue-white light erupted. It painted sharp shadows on the ancient walls. The hall's warm amber lamps seemed to shrink back.
A massive, shimmering interface hung in the air. Graphs and data-streams flowed like water.
Gods. It's beautiful.
---
<< GUILD OPERATING SYSTEM: v1.0 >>
The text glowed with sterile authority.
"Behold our future," Gareth said. He gestured to a chart showing membership numbers soaring. "The G.O.S. integrates everything. Job assignments. Client billing. Resource allocation. All optimized."
Another graph appeared. Projected revenue. The line shot up like a rocket.
A wave of murmurs swept the room. Anya saw young weavers and junior artificers leaning forward. Their eyes were wide, reflecting the blue light.
A young artificer two rows ahead whispered, "Finally, someone who understands data!"
They're impressed. Of course they are.
"It tracks everything," a young woman beside Anya whispered to her friend. "Efficiency ratings. Profit-per-member. Finally, some real data!"
Gareth zoomed in on a member profile. It showed a carpenter's completion rate, earnings, even a calculated "Loyalty Score."
An older weaver behind Anya muttered, "Loyalty Score? Like we're livestock?"
The room was fracturing in real-time.
"With this clarity," Gareth continued, "we can finally compete with the corporate foundries. We can match their speed. Surpass their low prices."
He paused, letting the data sink in.
"To fight a dragon," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble, "you must become a dragon."
He looked out over the sea of faces.
"Otherwise, you're just kindling."
---
The words landed with the force of a physical blow.
Anya's hands gripped the edge of her seat. The wood was smooth and cool.
He's not wrong. That's the worst part.
She could see the brutal logic. The city's big industrial cartels were dragons. They breathed the fire of predatory pricing. They crushed small workshops with economies of scale.
Gareth's system was a suit of armor. A set of claws.
But what was inside that armor?
She looked at the "Loyalty Score" on the projection. It was just a number. It couldn't measure the carpenter's care for his wood. It couldn't quantify the pride in a perfect joint.
It sees the output, not the heart.
The older members around her weren't cheering. They were still. A master stonemancer, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, just stared at her own gnarled hands.
What's her Loyalty Score? What's mine?
Gareth was detailing the "streamlined" dispute process. All appeals would be handled by the system's algorithm. For "fairness and speed."
Anya saw Bren, their mentor, sitting near the front. His shoulders were slumped. He wasn't looking at the glittering display. He was staring at the ancient Guild seal carved into the wall behind Gareth.
The stone seal showed a hand holding a hammer and a sheaf of wheat. Strength and sustenance.
It looked like an anchor from a different age. An age that was slipping away.
---
"The transition will be seamless," Gareth announced. "All current contracts will be migrated. Your new productivity targets will be assigned by week's end."
Productivity targets.
The words felt alien in this hall. They were corporate words. Factory words.
The system interface shifted again. It showed a map of the city, with guild members as glowing dots. Some dots were bright green. Others were a dim, lackluster yellow.
"Visualizing potential," Gareth explained. "We can easily identify underperforming assets and… reallocate resources."
Anya's blood went cold.
Underperforming assets. He means people. Workshops. Like the Clay and Craft Collective.
The memory of the black smoke over the artisan's quarter flashed in her mind. The potters were the most fragile, most "underperforming" part of her network.
And Gareth's system would see them as a problem to be solved. A resource to be reallocated.
The seductive blue light didn't feel beautiful anymore. It felt cold. It felt like a cage being built around the soul of the guild, one efficient bar at a time.
The presentation ended. The projection vanished.
The sudden return of the warm lamplight was blinding.
People erupted into conversation. The hall buzzed with a frantic energy. Gareth stepped down from the dais, immediately surrounded by a crowd of supporters.
Anya stood up. Her legs felt weak.
She had to get out. She had to think.
She pushed through the crowd, not toward the exit, but toward the one person who might understand.
She made her way to the front, to where Bren still sat, staring at the stone seal.
He didn't look up as she approached.
"She's a hell of a sales pitch, isn't she?" he said, his voice gravelly with emotion.
"It's not a 'she,' Bren," Anya replied softly. "It's an 'it.' And I think it might eat us from the inside out."
Bren finally turned to look at her. His eyes were tired. "So what do we do, Anya? You can't fight data with feelings."
Anya looked from Bren's weary face to the retreating back of Gareth, the new king of a digital domain.
Can't I?
"We do what we've always done," she said, her voice finding its strength again. "We prove that some things are more valuable than data. Starting with the potters. I need to see what's left of their collective."
She turned and walked away, leaving the buzz of the hall behind. The real work wasn't here anymore. It was in the rubble.