Malden felt a headache brewing in his mind, not because of the state Hermil was in right now, but because of the group of men around him that had already chewed half his mind with their worries and wants. They crowded him like flies on a wound, buzzing with their demands, each man convinced his voice mattered most. They spoke as if he wore their chains, as if he answered to them in some way. The truth was, he did not.

He dragged his eyes away from them and set them on the line of wagons stretched down the road. His workers were working hard—they bent their backs beneath heavy crates, muscles straining—stacking wooden boxes, and sacks of grain. Dates and dried figs clattered faintly within their casks. The wagons stood heavy and patient, wheels sunk deep into yesterday’s ruts. The whole road was theirs; it was too early for any travelers to clog the way. Even the beggars had not yet stirred.

Malden wanted those wheels rolling before the first ray of suns crept over the rooftops. The guards at the gate had already been paid, silver tucked into greedy palms.

“Are you even listening to me?” The harsh voice cut across the noise of loading.

Malden turned his head, jaw tightening. The old man stood at the front of the group like a thorn wedged into soft flesh. Justin. Once, Malden had thought him a partner worth dealing with. Now, he regretted that thought with every word the man spat. Justin’s face was all creased fury, his finger wagging as though he could scold Malden into obedience.

“What you are doing goes against our contract,” Justin barked. “You can’t do this. You said you are an honourable merchant.”

Malden’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed into a hard glare. His voice came back low, already tired having to deal with this man’s antics. “Have you ever met any truly honourable merchant? Because I haven’t. And I haven’t broken any contract.”

A younger man from the group stepped forward, puffed up like a lanky rooster about to fight. He even looked the part—unruly hair, skinny appearance. His words were quick and bitter. “That’s a blatant lie. We are going to complain to the Merchant Association. They won’t let you walk free without paying us double for our losses.”

The edge of laughter tugged at Malden’s lips, though he did not give them the satisfaction of hearing it. He almost smiled, almost. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the man and spoke with the weight of iron.

“Section thirty three, clause four,” he said. “In the event of war, I don’t have to sell any grain to the distributors.”

Silence followed, broken only by the thud of another crate dropped into place and the restless snort of a mule. The men’s bluster faltered, their anger grinding against the simple truth carved into the contract they thought to use as a blade.

Malden knew the only reason he had agreed to work with them was because the man already had too many products piled up in his storehouses. The deal had simply cleared space, taken the excess off his hands.

“There’s no war,” Justin said with a huff.

Malden’s temper stirred. He still clings to comfort, even after all this?

“Were you not here, Justin? After the Assembly, dozens of Mages were killed in that explosion.”

Justin gave a shrug that made Malden’s teeth clench. “That doesn’t mean war. It was just a terrorist attack.”

The words rang hollow. Malden dragged in a long breath and let it out through his nose. His chest felt heavy, not with sorrow, but with frustration. Because this man does not seem to get it like he did.

“You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. His eyes swept over the group, catching the blank stares, the restless fidgeting. “No wonder you haven’t gotten anywhere in life.”

Silence pressed down for a moment. Then Malden took a step forward. “Do you even know who every Mage that died belonged to?”

Justin frowned, searching for an answer. “Archine Tower?”

Malden’s jaw tightened. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t even thought about it. “No. The First Prince’s faction. Every single one. Even the injured. It was a deliberate attack.”

The group stirred at that. They hadn’t clearly expected all the Mages who’d died to belong to the First Prince’s faction. Uneasy voices rose in low murmurs, as if the truth itself was something dangerous to speak of. Malden let them whisper, but he wasn’t finished. He straightened.

“And do you not know?” he pressed. “The other two Princes have already left the capital. They left right after the assembly, and after what happened in it.”

Justin cleared his throat loudly. He looked away, then back again, his tone caught between defiance and fear. “We know what happened, and we know they’re gone. But civil war? That’s too much. The king won’t let it happen.”

Malden almost laughed, but the sound never left his throat. The king? He hides in his palace while his sons are ready to carve the kingdom according to their wills.

“If he didn’t want it, then what happened in the Assembly would never have been allowed. You need to wake up. Stop pretending life will stay the same. You cling to your daily comforts, but they’re about to be stripped away.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you’ve made plenty of profit off me. But there are no profits in war.”

The group grew tense, some of the men even avoided his gaze while some stared at the crates being carried, as if hoping the grain would give them answers.

“There’s still no confirmation, Malden. You can’t just walk around with assumptions.”

Even now, they refuse to see. They would rather call it a rumor than face what’s coming.

Just then, Malden noticed movement at the edge of the yard. His workers were loading another wagon, their arms straining as they heaved sacks and crates into place. The steady rhythm of their labor calmed him. At least someone around here knew how to act without hesitation.

He gave them a nod, a quiet approval that needed no words. “Check the warehouse once again,” he called out. “See if the other ones are cleared too.” They acknowledged him with quick nods, then went back to work. Malden turned back to look at the merchants.

“Everything is an assumption in the market,” he said. “That’s how trade works. But merchants are the ones who bleed most in a war. Prices rise, common folk can’t afford a loaf of bread, and we can’t sell at profit. Then the lords step in. They seize what’s left, and in return we get either a pat on the back or a blade in the throat.”

He let the words hang, watching the faces in front of him. The street grew quieter with every sentence. Fear crept in behind their eyes, tightening jaws, twitching hands. Malden felt a grim satisfaction. So they weren’t complete idiots. They can smell truth when it stares them down. But whether they have the spine to act on it, that was another matter.

He rubbed at the edge of his chin, suppressing a sigh. I hate wasting breath on speeches. But people cling to me, looking for certainty, for strength. And Arzan… yes, Lord Arzan will want to hear I pressed them. He’ll call it doing a good thing.

“So you’re saying,” Justin spoke up, voice a little thinner than before, “everything we have will just be compensated by the king?”

Malden fixed him with a steady look. “Not the king. Prince Eldric, more likely. The king will be dead or locked away by the looks of it. And I don’t recall Eldric ever having a generous heart.”

A hush fell over the group. One of the men shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “And where are you going to sell all this grain and food then? To other merchants?”

Malden shook his head slowly, as if the question itself missed the obvious. “No good merchant would buy all this in bulk. They see what’s coming as well as I do. Even the association has its bells ringing. Warnings everywhere.”

He let his words sink in, studying their faces. Fear was there now, real and raw, but fear alone meant nothing. Words were wind unless they moved their feet.

A man near the back stomped his foot against the ground. His eyes darted to the wagons being loaded, then back to Malden. “Then what options do we even have?”

Malden held his gaze. The man’s fear was plain, his words echoing what the others dared not say aloud. “There are only a few,” he said.

Justin leaned forward quickly. He had always been the fastest to catch on, even if he wasted that wit on denial. “And what is that?”

“You can sell to the Princes right now. They’re gathering armies, and every grain of food will be worth its weight.”

Justin scoffed, but Malden caught the unease behind it. “They won’t give me the best price. Especially if what you say is true.”

“Obviously they won’t,” Malden replied and almost rolled his eyes. “But it’s better than waiting until soldiers storm your doors and take it all while the city burns.”

Another merchant, a stout one—Grellok opened his mouth. “And are you doing the same thing, Malden?”

At that, Malden chuckled. He let the sound linger, soft but mocking. “No, Grellok. because the first option is for those who can’t live without selling their stock,” he said. “What I’ll do is hand out every bit of my grain myself.”

A stunned silence fell over the group. Faces looked at him with wide eyes, lips parting as if they couldn’t believe their ears. Malden caught the look in each of them—half scorn, half disbelief. He laughed again, sharper this time.

“Hand it out? Just like that? How’s that any better than being ransacked?” Justin asked.

“It’s very simple. Because it’s voluntary. You need to think long term. Civil war is temporary—someone will come out on top. And when they do, what do you think will happen? They’ll reward the ones who stood by them.” He looked around. “Why do you think the nobles stopped licking the king’s boots and turned toward the princes? It’s a long-term interest. That’s the only game worth playing.”

Justin’s eyes lit up first, quicker than the rest. Malden saw it—the moment the man finally pieced the plan together. The look spread like a spark through dry hay. One by one, the others followed, their stupid faces shifting from confusion to amazement in seconds.

“Then who are you going to support?” Grellok asked. “The second prince? Or the third?”

Before Malden could answer, another man leaned forward. “It should be the first, right? He has the Archine Tower behind him.”

A third cut in almost at once. “But there are rumours of Veridia’s death. Without her, they’re nothing.”

Soon there were so many voices, the merchants snapping back and forth, each naming the prince they already favored. The names overlapped, the reasons clashed, and none of them matched Malden’s choice.

He let them bicker for a moment, then cut across their noise with a single flat statement. “I am not supporting any of the princes.”

That earned an earful of silence.

“Huh?”

“Then who are you supporting?” Justin asked. His eyes were practically glinting with curiosity and Malden let the question hang for a few more seconds.

“Lord Arzan.”

“The new Duke? Then… is it true? The King allowed him to contest for the throne? I thought that was just a ridiculous rumor.”

Malden shook his head and disagreed with Justin. These men… they know so little. And they pretended so much. “It’s not a rumor, Justin. I won’t go into details, but Lord Arzan is contesting for the throne, and I will be supporting him.”

The group shifted, giving him a mix of looks—skepticism, curiosity, and disbelief. Malden met them all without blinking.

“Why him? I know he’s supported you until now, but can he really become King? He doesn’t have royal blood. The princes have bigger armies and stronger supporters.”

Malden smiled, a thin curl of amusement tugging at his mouth. They never see it. Always the same mistake—underestimating him. Lord Arzan must be grateful every day for how small everyone thinks he is.

“There are ways to get around royal blood,” Malden said at last. “It isn’t the most important thing. What matters is who stands behind you. And the whole of the Sylvan Enclave will support him—I can guarantee that. The princes won’t stand a chance. That’s my prediction. No…” His voice sharpened with a finality. “That’s what’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Grellok muttered, shaking his head.

Malden only shrugged. He had already wasted more words on them than he cared to. “Believe what you want,” he said flatly. “I’ll do what brings me the most profit.” He let a pause settle, then added, almost casually, “Next time we meet, I might just be a noble myself.”

That earned him wide eyes and whispers, but Malden was already turning away. He walked toward the road, where his carriage stood waiting. The workers had finished loading, the horses restless with the weight behind them. He placed a hand on the polished wood of the step.

The road to Veralt stretched long in his mind. He needed to reach a proper inn before nightfall. He had grown too accustomed to good bedding and warm roofs; the thought of lying out in the open dirt again made his bones ache. Another thing wealth does—it softens you.

Behind him, the merchants broke into noise again, voices rising, some calling after him. Malden didn’t slow. Their words were wind now, empty shouts he had no reason to hear.

But just as his boot touched the first step of the carriage, a voice cut through the clamor. It came from the far side of the street.

He turned his head.

His assistant, Hollis, was running toward him, weaving through the crowd, sweat shining on his forehead, face pale with alarm.

Malden froze on the step, hand tightening on the rail. What now? he thought, his stomach sinking. He waited as the man pushed closer, the look in his eyes telling Malden this was no small matter.

Even the merchants who had been calling after him fell silent. Their footsteps slowed, and soon they were standing behind him, staring at the man rushing through the street.

Hollis stumbled up, chest heaving, face slick with sweat. He tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. Nothing came out but a rasp.

“Th–e—thuhh”

Malden narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out, boy!”

At last, the man forced the words free. “The third prince…”

“The third prince what?”

Hollis gulped in air, then managed, “Third Prince Thalric has declared himself king of Lancephil. He’s declared civil war to reclaim the kingdom, and says he’s the most suitable ruler. Many nobles and military officials have already given him their support. He’s taken Kaelgrim and declared it the new capital of Lancephil,” he said in a single breath and sighed loudly.

Malden’s eyes widened. So soon. I thought there would be more time.

A loud gasp came from behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know what the faces of the merchants would be like—wide-eyed, pale, mouths hanging open like children hearing thunder for the first time.

He kept his gaze fixed on Hollis instead. “Get on the carriage,” he said in a calm voice though his mind was already racing.

He placed his boot on the step again and hauled himself up, but halfway he paused. Slowly, he turned his head toward the merchants. His eyes found Justin’s, and he let the silence linger a beat.

“If we meet next time,” Malden said, “I’ll get you lunch.”

With that, he disappeared into the carriage. The doors shut behind him with a heavy thud, cutting off the street, the merchants, and their noise.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep