Grand Hall, Nightfall
The Grand Hall glittered with candlelight that danced across marble walls. Platters of roasted boar, spiced bread, and red wine filled the long table. The merchants laughed loudly, exchanging crude jokes as though the night was nothing but a feast of friendship. Roland teased Veyra about her steel being harder than her husband, Tomas laughed the loudest, and Albern merely offered a thin smile. Arthur sat at the head, sipping wine in silence. He knew their laughter was hollow. Beneath it, every man in the hall had come to test their new king.
When the last dish was cleared, Tomas slapped the table and stood. With his oily smile, he slid a scroll forward.
"Your Majesty, to guarantee market stability, we have drafted a distribution contract for staple goods. Simple, fair, and mutually beneficial."
Arthur unrolled it, his eyes scanning swiftly. On the surface, it promised generous revenues for the Crown. But hidden in tangled clauses lay poison: permanent monopoly for Tomas's guild, exemption from audits, and eternal tax immunity. Arthur rolled the parchment shut with deliberate calm and spoke one word that struck like a blade.
"Deceitful."
Tomas's smile faltered. "I—"
Arthur's voice cut sharp. "Clause seventeen. Exemption from Crown audit. Legalized theft, dressed in ink. The age of these rotten contracts ends tonight."
The hall fell silent. Tomas's face turned pale.
Roland slammed his fist on the table. "And what of your tax? Twelve percent on every sale? That will crush us! Farmers and small traders will starve!"
Arthur fixed his gaze on him. "Crush you? Let's count. Under Mordred, you paid twenty percent official tax. Add ten percent to soldiers, five percent in bribes to market lords. That is thirty-five percent of every transaction. Now I set one single tax—twelve percent flat. No bribes, no hidden fees. You endured thirty-five, yet you dare call twelve a burden?"
Roland froze, jaw tightening.
Arthur pressed on, voice steady. "Aside from the sales tax, there will only be a five-percent annual residence tax. Light. Clear. No more officials barging into your storehouses to seize what they please. Everything will be recorded, transparent, audited by the Crown and the Tower."
Murmurs filled the hall. Faces once hardened began to shift, some uncertain, some thoughtful.
Arthur stepped forward. "You think I came only to collect taxes. You are wrong. I came with something greater. I already hold the blueprints. I already have the circles. What I need is funding. I am not asking for tribute—I am offering you investment."
He turned to Roland.
"You control food. With a mana-powered cold box, venison stays fresh for a week. You could sell it in the capital for triple the price. With a mana plow, one farmer replaces ten slaves. Your harvest doubles, your costs collapse."
Roland's eyes narrowed, anger shifting into calculation.
Arthur faced Veyra.
"You control iron. The mana railways will devour steel by the ton. I already have the blueprint for mana-driven trains. You provide steel, I provide design. The rail will birth new towns, new markets. You will hold monopoly over railway steel for ten years."
Veyra's eyes gleamed despite the cold mask on her face.
Arthur's gaze fell on Tomas, sharp as a dagger.
"You control the capital's markets. You crave monopoly, but tonight it dies. Instead, you may sit on the Council of Transport and Trade, overseeing revenues from the trains and markets. Transparent. Accountable. You can join as an investor—or be erased entirely."
Tomas's lips twitched. The smile that had cloaked him all night was gone, leaving only sweat on his brow.
Finally, Arthur turned to Albern.
"You are the veteran trader. I need you for exports. Roland's grain, Veyra's steel, mana cold-boxes, mana lamps—everything will have markets abroad. Export tax low, profit high. You could be the first man to sell Valoria's technology to the world."
Albern rose slowly, his cane striking marble. His voice was gravel, yet carried weight.
"I have traded since the reign of King Mario. I have heard kings promise war, and kings promise gold. You are the first to promise partnership. If this is your path, then I stand with you."
Arthur lifted his hand, his words landing like a judge's gavel.
"Tonight we form the Council of Industrial Reform. The Crown, the Mage Tower, and you—the merchants. Our first projects: mana cold-boxes, mana plows, mana railways, mana street lamps. We pool our capital. We share our profit. You are not mere taxpayers—you are investors in Valoria's future."
Roland lowered his head in grudging acceptance. Veyra leaned back, still proud but unable to hide her hunger. Tomas bit down hard, his silence louder than words. Albern bowed deeply.
Arthur's final words rang across the hall.
"The old era is dead. Valoria is reborn tonight. Stand with me, and you will build the future. Refuse, and you will be swept aside with the past."
Some merchants stood, others remained rigid in their chairs. But the tide was clear: the wheel of change had begun to turn.
As the meeting ended, Albern shuffled forward and whispered, "Your Majesty… beware. The old nobility still live. They will not stand idle as your tax takes root. These reforms could spark a revolution in Valoria."
Arthur gripped his goblet tightly, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the window. The merchants are halfway bent. But the nobles… they are the poison lurking in the shadows.
He drank deeply, voice low but resolute.
"If revolution comes, so be it. For the old Valoria deserves to die."