***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik, now in a different room, sat before yet another long oval table.
Sinbad had claimed its rightmost corner, idly spinning a gold coin on its edge.
The metallic click-click of it turning and tipping filled the momentary silence.
Azeem stood beside them, hands busy spreading scrolls across the table.
Each was sealed with different marks—some smudged from travel, others crisp and fresh.
"In the past week… the Western Merchant's Faction, the 'Fat Slug' himself, tried to pull out of an agreement with us."
He tapped a scroll with the back of his fingers.
"Thought he could squeeze us for more coin. I had him… reminded why that wouldn't be in his best interest. Strongly reminded."
Sinbad smirked without looking up.
"I'm sure he's still sweating."
Azeem went on:
