The decision to act was simple.
The act itself was not.
Duke waited until evening before speaking.
Evelyn was seated near the small hearth, mending one of Jocelyn's sleeves with thread so thin it looked close to breaking. Cera sat beside her, trimming loose fabric carefully to preserve what little cloth remained.
The house was quiet in the way only poor homes were — not from peace, but from conservation.
He stood near the table for a moment before saying, "I need three silvers."
The needle stopped mid-stitch.
Evelyn looked up slowly.
"For what?"
He did not answer immediately.
Words required calibration.
"If I can buy materials," he said evenly, "I can make something that will sell."
Cera frowned slightly. "Make what?"
"Soap."
Silence followed.
Jocelyn blinked. "We don't even use much soap."
"Because it's expensive," he replied.
Evelyn set the fabric down carefully.
"You're still recovering."
"I can stir a pot," he said calmly.
Her eyes searched his face — not for deception, but for fragility.
He held her gaze steadily.
"I won't waste it."
The statement carried more weight than the amount requested.
Three silvers was not insignificant. It represented days of labor.
Evelyn rose slowly and walked to the corner of the room. From beneath a loose board, she retrieved a small cloth pouch and untied it carefully.
Coins clinked softly as she counted.
"One," she said quietly.
"Two."
A pause.
"Three."
She placed them in his hand.
Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.
"If this fails," she said gently, "we won't blame you."
He nodded once.
"It won't."
The butcher barely glanced at him when he requested rendered fat.
"Three silvers?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The butcher scooped a generous portion into a clay container. It was not cleanly filtered. Small impurities floated near the surface.
Duke did not complain.
Refinement could occur later.
From the edge of the village, he gathered wood ash from communal fire pits. He sifted it through cloth carefully to remove larger charcoal fragments.
Back home, he prepared the workspace near the hearth.
The pot was small.
The heat uneven.
The variables imperfect.
He adjusted accordingly.
Water measured by volume estimation.
Ash added gradually.
Fat introduced once the alkaline mixture stabilized.
The stirring began.
The process required patience.
In his previous life, he had worked with substances far more volatile than soap base. There, temperature miscalculation could result in explosion. Here, error meant wasted silver.
The difference in stakes was not emotional.
It was structural.
He stirred steadily.
The mixture thickened slowly.
Too slowly.
He leaned closer.
The ash concentration was insufficient.
He adjusted.
Added more filtered ash.
Stirred again.
The consistency improved.
But when he poured the mixture into rough molds carved from wood scraps, he noticed separation along the edges.
Oil rising.
Unstable emulsification.
He exhaled quietly.
Medieval constraints.
No precise measuring tools.
No purified reagents.
He scraped the mixture back into the pot and reheated it carefully.
Longer stir.
Lower heat.
Slow integration.
The second attempt held.
Barely.
He poured again and set the molds aside.
"Will it work?" Jocelyn asked softly.
"It should," he replied.
But uncertainty remained.
The bars required curing.
Time he did not have in excess.
The next morning, he inspected them carefully.
The texture had firmed — but not evenly. One bar showed slight crumbling along the edge.
He cut away the flaw.
The remaining surface was smooth.
Better than the market's rough blocks.
Not perfect.
But superior.
He wrapped ten bars in cloth strips and left the house before hesitation could return.
The merchant from earlier examined the first bar skeptically.
"You again."
"Yes."
The man dipped the soap into a small basin of water and rubbed.
Foam formed quickly.
He rubbed harder.
The lather held.
He scraped the edge lightly with his nail.
It did not crumble.
"This isn't from the city," the merchant muttered.
"No."
"How much?"
Duke did not rush the answer.
"Ten," he said evenly.
The merchant looked up sharply.
"For this quality?"
Silence.
The merchant tested again.
Longer this time.
Then he glanced at his own stock — pale, uneven bars stacked nearby.
"This is better," he admitted.
Duke said nothing.
The merchant leaned back slightly.
"You could charge more."
Duke's expression did not shift.
"How much would you pay?" he asked calmly.
The man studied him carefully.
"Twelve," he said finally. "If the rest are like this."
"They are."
The merchant counted coins deliberately.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
Eighty.
One hundred.
One hundred twenty.
The weight of silver in Duke's palm felt heavier than expected.
One gold.
Twenty silvers.
From three.
He did not smile.
He did not celebrate.
He nodded once and left.
When he placed the silver on the table at home, Evelyn stared at it as if it might vanish.
Cera counted silently.
Jocelyn's eyes widened.
"One gold and twenty silvers," Duke said evenly.
"From three?" Cera whispered.
"Yes."
Evelyn's hands trembled slightly.
"You didn't—"
"No."
He understood the question before she finished.
She exhaled slowly.
Relief settled over the room like warmth from the hearth.
He separated coins carefully.
Two gold set aside for household security.
One gold retained for reinvestment.
Remaining silver allocated for materials.
"We improve first," he said calmly.
Evelyn blinked.
"Food," he continued. "Clothes. Then expansion."
She studied him with quiet intensity.
"You speak like an adult," she murmured.
He softened his tone slightly.
"I'm just thinking ahead."
That night, as the house ate thicker stew than usual, Duke remained quiet.
Three silvers had become one gold and twenty.
The staircase had begun.
But this was only the first step.
Scaling would require consistency.
Consistency required discipline.
And discipline, he had learned long ago, was not emotional.
It was systematic.
He looked down at his hands.
Stronger than before.
But not yet strong enough.
Soap would build capital.
Capital would build strength.
Strength would remove ceilings.
He inhaled slowly.
The faint density within his abdomen pulsed once in response.
The first conversion was complete.
Many more awaited.