Morning comes anyway.
Ashlynn is still asleep when I get dressed. I don't wake her. The city doesn't care what we did last night. Neither do the Orders.
I go to the Hearthlight building and work as a clerk, only for half a day. After that, I leave the building. Return to my hotel room, change to a suit, grab my cylindrical bag filled with rocks, then hop on a carriage.
"Gilded Ledger Order," I tell the jarvy.
He nods, and the carriage moves. We travel through the Northern Outskirt, then down south toward the City Heart. The vaporgates loom ahead—humming vast curtains of mist stretching across the sky, filtering the smog before it reaches the center. We pass through, leaving behind soot-stained stone and dim streets.
On the other side, the city shifts. Polished buildings, clean lines, terrifyingly precise.
The carriage slows, then stops. I step out in front of the Gilded Ledger building.
Stone is pale gray, cut into massive blocks forming straight walls. Bronze frames rim the windows; thick glass reflects the sky like polished metal. The building stretches wide—at least three times as long as it is deep—but only four stories high.
Each floor has a line of carved molding beneath the sills. The roof is flat, edged with a low, decorative balustrade. Nothing rises above it. Above the entrance hangs the emblem: a steel dragon curled around a hoard of gold. Scales, claws, coins—all detailed, catching the light sharply.
The double doors are solid bronze, polished but dull. No handles, no knockers—just precision. On either side, liquid lanterns hang. They open wide, as if grabbing people in on purpose instead of letting them go.
I walk through the entrance and enter the building. Marble floors stretch wide, black veins streaking the pale stone like frozen lightning. Ceiling rises two stories, glass panels letting light flood the space, catching the gilt edges of beams and cornices. Every surface polished until reflections blur reality—a man could disappear in his own reflection.
Massive columns line the room, their ivory bases carved with dragons coiled around coins, claws clutching the floor. Between them, gilded railings separate raised platforms where clerks sit behind brass-trimmed desks, each embossed with the dragon-over-hoard emblem. Windows stretch tall, framed in bronze, every pane etched with the Order's symbol, catching sunlight like fire.
Chandeliers of bronze and crystal hang above, and the sharp scent of polished wood fills the air. A fountain trickles at the center, its water spiraling over steel dragon scales, gold coins embedded in its base catching the light.
The lobby hums with quiet energy. Clerks shuffle papers, speak in clipped tones, but even their movement feels choreographed. Every guest, every visitor, every coin exchanged exists inside the gaze of the dragon.
I move toward a desk. The clerk is already looking at me as I approach.
"Good Friday, Monsieur," she greets me with a smile.
"Good Friday," I smile back.
"Welcome to the Gilded Ledger building. What can I do for you?"
"I would like to pay my taxes."
She pulls out a sheet of paper and begins writing.
"May I see your registry?"
I hand it over. She copies something from it, then sets it back on the desk. I pick it up and slip it back into my pocket.
"You owe the Republic one hundred phens," she says, handing me the paper.
I take it. A receipt.
I lift my bag and open it, then spill its contents onto the desk. Rocks scatter across the polished surface.
The clerk starts counting.
"May I ask your income source?" she says without looking up.
"Does it matter?"
She stops counting.
Her gaze lifts to meet mine. The smile fades, her expression turning sour.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur," she says. "We can not accept payment without verifying its origin."
I asked the wrong question.
My heart begins to race.
I gather the rocks, sweep them back into my bag, and turn away. I walk out of the building, leaving the dragon behind me.
Outside, the world feels smaller. My breath turns uneven. Whispers feel loud. My steps lose their rhythm. A few people notice—then decide not to.
I walk without direction and bump into a man. Rocks spill from my bag and scatter across the street.
"Sorry."
He's young, wearing a blue suit. Green eyes. Blonde hair.
"You have a lot of money, Monsieur," he says, glancing down at the stones. "Where do you get them?"
I steady myself. Slow my breathing. Force my heart back into line.
"Does it matter?"
"Monsieur, I know this is improper of me to ask," he says, bowing his head slightly, one hand resting over his chest in a restrained, courteous gesture. "But would you like to invest in my business?"
An idea hits me.
"If you pick up those phens on the ground," I say, "I might agree."
He kneels immediately, gathering the rocks with careful hands, then rises and holds them out to me.
I tap his shoulder once.
"What's your name?"
"Adrian," he says. "Adrian Lockhart."
Adrian straightens and launches into an explanation of his fishing business. Coastal contracts. Storage sheds. Boats he plans to acquire. Routes that could be profitable. He talks fast, gestures wide, stacks possibility on top of possibility.
It has potential.
It's also thin. Too many gaps. Too much faith doing the work money should be doing.
"I will give you phens for investment," I say. "On two conditions."
His face lights up immediately, smile bright and eager. "Anything, Monsieur."
"First, I own half of it. The second is—"
He leans forward. "Yes?"
"You will report last month's income as one thousand phens. On paper."
The smile falters. Just a little.
"But the company hasn't been properly established yet," he says, fingers tightening around the stones he's holding. His eyes flick aside, then back to me. "How could it already have income?"
"Don't worry about it," I say.
My voice is steady. Certain. Like the answer exists whether he understands it or not.
I hold his gaze without blinking.
"That part is already taken care of."
He nods. "Whats your name Monsieur?"
"Thadeo Owright." I incline my head slightly, hand brushing toward my chest in a polite gesture.
We agree to meet at the market port of the Western Outskirt tomorrow afternoon.
"You can have the phens I dropped."
His eyes widen, green catching the daylight like polished glass.
"Thank you so much, Monsieur." His voice lifts, breath quickening with excitement as he clutches the rocks closer to his chest, fingers tightening around them as if afraid they might dissolve if he loosens his grips.
He bows slightly then turns and leaves, nearly bumping into a passerby as he hurries down the street, still staring at the rocks in his hands.
I watch him disappear into the crowd before turning away.
The street noise presses back in around me—wagon wheels grinding against cobblestones and people whispering as they walk. My pulse settles into a slower rhythm as I walk, boots striking the stone in even beats.
I head straight toward the Civic Concord building.
The structure rises ahead in layered tiers of pale stone, its tall windows catching the daylight and scattering it across the street like sheets of dull silver. People move in and out in a constant flow, coats brushing, shoes tapping in orderly cadence as if the building itself dictates their pace.
Inside, the air shifts cooler. Ink, paper, and polished wood mingle into a dry, official scent that coats the back of my throat. Footsteps echo across the tiled floor, softened by the distant rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pen nibs dragging across ledgers.
I approach a desk.
"Good Friday, Monsieur," the clerk greets me with a professional smile, lips curved just enough to be welcoming without becoming familiar.
"Good Friday," I greet back with a smile.
"What can we do for you?"
"I would like to register a company."
"Oh a smart proper citizen," she holds two thumbs up. "What would you call it?"
"Owright Firm."
She lowers her thumbs and reaches for a registry book beneath the desk, its spine worn smooth by use.
"Owright Firm," she repeats, writing the name carefully. "Ownership structure?"
"Sole proprietor," I answer.
She nods without comment, already accustomed to vague answers. Her pen scratches steadily.
"What is the nature of your business?"
"Investment and asset management."
She writes it down, then stamps the page once. The sound is sharp, final.