Success, Aris discovered, had a very specific sound. It sounded like the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of ceramic coins being stacked into neat little towers.
He sat in the back room of the "Royal Treasury"—a converted broom closet that smelled faintly of dry rot and optimism—counting the day's intake. The Black Credits glinted in the dim light of a moss-lamp. To a casual observer, he looked like a wealthy tycoon surveying his empire.
To a trained eye, he looked like a man rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.
"Seven hundred and forty credits," Aris murmured, placing the final hexagon atop a precarious stack. "We have successfully recaptured ninety percent of the currency supply in less than six hours. The velocity of money is incredible."
"Which means," Eve's voice drifted from the shadows, cool and sharp as a scalpel, "that the populace is currently holding ten percent of the wealth, and we are holding one hundred percent of the inventory."
Aris turned to look at the shelves behind him.
They were bare.
The Goblins had bought every scrap of polished metal. The Crabs had purchased every jar of "Shell Gloss" (sewer grease). Even the "Mystery Crates"—which Aris had filled with literal gravel and broken table legs—were gone. The wood shavings on the floor were the only evidence that a store had ever existed here.
"It's a supply shock," Aris rubbed his temples, the euphoria of the sale fading into the cold reality of logistics. "We created demand, but we have zero supply elasticity. We need to restock before they realize they can't eat the coins."
"I do not know what 'Elasticity' is," Eve said, stepping into the light, her clipboard clutched like a weapon of war. "But I know that there is a line of forty Goblins outside. They have Credits. They want 'Big Hammers'. And they are beginning to look at the castle's support beams with... constructive intent."
Aris stood up, smoothing his dust-covered suit. "Tell the forge to ramp up production. We need hammers, pry-bars, and more shell-wax immediately. Double the shifts."
"We cannot."
Aris paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Why? Is the forge broken?"
"The forge is hot," Eve corrected. "The Goblins are willing. But we are out of iron."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant thump-thump-thump of a mob outside.
"Define 'out'," Aris said slowly.
"We have scavenged every loose nail, every rusted grate, and every broken sword in a two-mile radius," Eve flipped a page on her clipboard, her face impassive. "We melted down the old prison bars to make the Greenhouse pipes. We melted the portcullis to make the Credit molds. Master, the Castle of Shadows is currently held together by gravity and stubbornness. There is no more metal."
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The pounding on the shop's front door grew louder. It wasn't a knock; it was a demand.
"OPEN UP!" a voice roared. It sounded like Krakka, but with the desperate edge of an addict denied his fix. "I HAVE THE SHINIES! I WANT THE CRATE! THE CRATE WITH THE GOOD ROCKS!"
Aris walked to the door. He took a breath, composed his face into the mask of the Demon King, and cracked it open.
The courtyard was a sea of green skin and waving black coins. The heat of the Twin Suns beat down on them, baking the smell of unwashed bodies and desperation into the air.
"The shop is closed for... restocking!" Aris announced, forcing a benevolent smile. "Great things are coming! Bigger hammers! Shinier grease!"
"NO RESTOCK!" a Goblin in the front screamed. He was holding a Black Credit so tight his knuckles were white. "I worked! I built the wall! I got the Shiny! Now I want the Prize!"
"You'll get the prize tomorrow!" Aris promised, trying to close the door.
"Tomorrow is fake!" another Goblin yelled, throwing a rock. It bounced harmlessly off the heavy wood. "Shiny is real NOW!"
Then, the crowd parted. The chaotic sea of green split down the middle as if cut by a blade.
King Pinch scuttled forward. Unlike the chaotic Goblins, the Crab King moved with terrifying, geometric precision. He was flanked by two massive Enforcer Crabs, both of whom looked suspiciously dry and unhappy.
"Sovereign Aris," Pinch clicked. His mental voice was cold, devoid of the usual neurotic panic about crooked trees. "We have a contract dispute."
Aris stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him to hide the empty shelves. "Pinch. How is the shell-wax treating you? Radiant, I hope?"
"The wax is adequate," Pinch waved a massive claw dismissively. "However, my architects require tools. We cannot cut the stone for the new expansion with our claws alone. It wears down the serrations. It is mathematically inefficient. We require chisels. Hardened steel chisels."
"We are... experiencing a slight delay in tool production," Aris admitted, loosening his tie.
"Then we cease labor," Pinch clicked.
The Enforcer Crabs slammed their claws into the dirt in perfect unison. THUD.
"No tools, no build," Pinch stated, adjusting his monocle. "No build, no walls. No walls... the sand-storms come in. And the moisture escapes."
Aris felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. This wasn't a riot. Riots he could handle with fire or shouting. This was a strike. A organized, bureaucratic shutdown of his entire kingdom.
"Give me twenty-four hours," Aris said, his voice dropping low. "I will get you the metal. I will get you the best iron this world has ever seen. Pure. Unrusted."
Pinch stared at him with his stalk-eyes. He seemed to calculate the probability of Aris's success.
"You have until the Red Sun hits the horizon tomorrow," Pinch decided. "After that, the Architects of the Shell return to the water tanks. And we do not come out."
The Crabs turned and marched away in perfect formation, their legs moving like a singular machine. The Goblins, sensing the change in atmosphere, decided to stop shouting and started ripping up the cobblestones to see if there was any metal hidden underneath.
Aris retreated into the Keep, grabbing Garrick by the collar as he passed the shadows of the hallway.
"War room. Now."
The Map Room
The air in the Map Room was stagnant. The table was covered in ancient, dust-crusted parchments of the Void-Continent, most of them hopelessly outdated.
Thal stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the blinding light outside. He was watching the Goblins try to pry a hinge off the main gate with a bone.
"We need a mine," Aris said, leaning over the table, tracing the jagged lines of the terrain. "Surface scavenging is over. We need a vein. A deep one."
"There is iron," Thal rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. He didn't turn around. He pointed a gloved finger over his shoulder at the map. "To the North. The Sun-Peak Mountains."
Aris looked at the map. The mountains were drawn as sharp, jagged teeth biting into the sky.
"Good," Aris nodded. "How far?"
"Half a day's march for a Legend. A full day for a caravan."
"Excellent. We send a Goblin work crew. We equip them with—"
"No," Thal cut him off.
Aris looked up. Thal turned slowly, his mask devoid of emotion, but his posture radiating warning.
"Goblins are surface scavengers," Thal explained. "They fear the Deep Dark. If you send them into a cave, they will scream, drop their torches, and run. They have... a cultural phobia of being enclosed. They need the sky."
"So we send the Crabs?" Aris asked. "They have armor."
"Crabs need water," Garrick noted from the corner, where he was peeling an apple with a knife that was definitely too sharp for fruit. "Caves are dry. And Crabs are wide. They get stuck in tunnels. Unless you want to butter them up and slide them in?"
Aris groaned, burying his face in his hands. "So we have the ore, but we have no one to dig it. We are sitting on a goldmine—well, an iron mine—and we can't touch it."
"Not exactly," Thal said quietly. "The caves are not empty."
Aris looked closer at the map. There was a symbol drawn over the mountains—a crude sketch of a reptilian snout with a candle resting on it.
"Kobolds," Thal said.
"Kobolds," Aris repeated. "I've read about them. Dog-like? Reptilian? Diggers?"
"Rat-dogs with scales," Garrick corrected. "Obsessive. Paranoid. Excellent miners. They spend their entire lives moving rock. They smell ore like a shark smells blood. They have stripped the surface of the Sun-Peaks bare."
"Perfect," Aris slammed his hand on the table. "We recruit them. We hire them. We pay them in Credits."
"There are complications," Thal said.
"Of course there are."
"One," Thal held up a finger. "Kobolds hate Goblins. It is an ancient blood feud. Goblins use hammers to smash; Kobolds use pickaxes to chip. They consider each other heretics of destruction. If you put them in the same room, they will try to kill each other with mining equipment."
"And two?" Aris asked.
"The Kobolds are currently starving," Thal said. "They have mined the surface clean. The rich veins—the massive deposits—are deep underground. Inside the mountain."
"So why don't they dig?" Aris asked, exasperated. "They are Kobolds. Digging is their entire personality."
"Because they are terrified of the Dark," Thal said.
Aris blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"They worship the Twin Suns," Thal explained. "They live on the highest peaks, baking themselves in the light. They believe that the Shadow-Stalkers live in the unlit places. They will starve on the sunny peaks before they step one foot into a dark tunnel without a guarantee of safety."
Aris stood there, processing this absurdity.
He had a kingdom with no metal.
He had a neighbor sitting on a mountain of iron.
That neighbor refused to dig because they were afraid of the dark.
And Aris just happened to have a Greenhouse full of oil-rich moss and a Mage who could conjure fire.
A slow smile spread across his face. It was the same smile he had worn when he sold the Goblins a rusty spoon.
"Thal," Aris said. "How much of that 'Munch-Bunch' moss do we have left in the drying racks?"
"Tons," Thal shrugged. "It grows faster than the Goblins can eat it. We're using it as insulation."
"And Elowen?" Aris asked. "Can she create a flame that doesn't burn out? A magical wick?"
"She can set water on fire if she's bored enough," Garrick grinned. "Why?"
Aris grabbed his satchel. He shoved a handful of Black Credits into one pocket.
"Eve," Aris called out. The maid appeared instantly.
"Yes, Master?"
"Tell the Goblins the shipment is delayed until tomorrow. Tell King Pinch I am personally securing the iron."
"They will be displeased," Eve noted. "There may be rock-throwing."
"Let them throw rocks," Aris said, heading for the door. "By tomorrow, I'm going to bring them so much iron they won't know what to smash first."
He paused at the door, looking back at his generals.
"Prepare the expedition. We aren't going to conquer the Kobolds. We're going to make a trade."
"What are we selling?" Garrick asked, tossing his apple core into the trash. "We have nothing."
Aris picked up a piece of the dried, wax-coated moss. He held it up to the light.
"We're selling them courage," Aris said. "We're going to sell them the Eternal Day."