The Guild Hall was packed. The air thick with excitement. You could taste it.
Gareth stood at the podium, bathed in cold blue light. His Guild OS shimmered behind him like a trophy.
"Friends," he began. "Our strength grows."
A new graph appeared. Membership numbers shot up. Three hundred new members from the Bronzeworkers' Guild merger.
The crowd murmured. Impressed.
"Revenue is up forty percent," Gareth announced. "We've secured three new city contracts."
More graphs. More impressive numbers. Applause started. It built into a wave.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
It sounded hollow to Anya. Like people clapping for a magic trick they didn't understand.
She focused on the contracts displayed on the projection, heart pounding a steady, angry rhythm. She had gotten copies from a friend in the records office, spending the last three nights hunched over them.
Something was deeply wrong with the Lampworks contract. The "efficiency targets" in Clause 7-B looked reasonable on paper. But when she'd actually calculated the math, the truth emerged:
To meet the targets, workers would have to skip breaks. Or work through cleanup. Or both.
The Solidarity Network hummed in her vision, confirming her analysis.
[APPRAISAL: INTEGRITY SCORE - ACTIVE]
[CONTRACT A: CITY LAMPWORKS]
[INTEGRITY SCORE: 34/100]
[WARNING: EXPLOITATION CLAUSE DETECTED - CLAUSE 7-B]
The Guild OS license was worse. The labyrinthine terms locked the Guild into a single, proprietary system, making it impossibly expensive to ever switch.
[CONTRACT B: GUILD OPERATING SYSTEM LICENSE][
INTEGRITY SCORE: 12/100][
WARNING: VENDOR LOCK-IN DETECTED]
A cold dread settled in her chest. The Guild was tying its own hands for a quick profit.
The applause continued around her. People were smiling. They saw the success.
Anya saw the trap.
The numbers were undeniable. The growth was real. But the foundation was rotten. They were building on sand.
The presentation ended. The crowd buzzed with energy. People surrounded Gareth, slapping his back.
Anya stayed in her seat. Watching.
She saw Bren make his way through the crowd. Her old mentor looked troubled.
He pulled Gareth aside. Their voices were low, but Anya was close enough to hear.
"Gareth," Bren said. "This Clause 7-B in the Lampworks contract... these efficiency targets. They seem... aggressive."
Gareth waved a dismissive hand. He kept his politician's smile firmly in place.
"It's a standard growth clause, Bren. Don't worry about the fine print. The important thing is we're winning."
"But the workers—" Bren started.
"The workers have jobs," Gareth cut in, voice losing its smooth edge. "Good jobs. That's what matters."
He turned away to accept more congratulations.
Bren stood alone for a moment. The crowd flowed around him.
Anya saw the look on his face. Not anger. Doubt. The first real crack in his certainty.
He had believed in Gareth's practical approach. But this? This felt different.
Anya finally stood up.
Gareth was vulnerable. Not in his numbers, but in his foundations.
He was so focused on building high, he didn't care what it was built on.
She had done the work to see the truth. The Solidarity Network had confirmed it, but she had found it.
The next guild meeting wouldn't be about her small network of potters and weavers.
It would be about his contracts. His fine print. His hollow victories.
She walked toward the exit, but paused near Bren.
He was still standing there, staring at the empty podium where Gareth had been.
"You saw it too," Anya said quietly.
Bren turned. His eyes met hers. Something passed between them. Not agreement. Not alliance.
Understanding.
"I need to find something," he said, almost to himself. "An old document. From the founding days."
He walked away without another word, leaving Anya alone in the thinning crowd.