Chapter 16: Rats in the Granary
The silence in the Prince's study was heavy, as if the very air itself was waiting to shatter. Commander Gregor and Captain Hanssen stared at Eldrin, their expressions a mixture of conviction and taut anticipation. In the corner, Cain stood motionless, yet Eldrin could feel his piercing gaze, dissecting every molecule in the room.
They were all waiting for his command.
Inside, Eldrin's mind spun in panic, searching for a way out. It was like standing before a critical NPC after a major event, waiting for the next quest objective to pop up on screen. But there was no screen. No "Quest Accepted" notification. Only silence, demanding.
His thoughts automatically sorted through options as if he were scrolling a game menu: Aggression (Attack), Investigation (Gather More Information), or Passive (Ignore).
He almost laughed bitterly. How pathetic. Faced with a real crisis involving human lives, the only framework he had to think with came from a world made of code and pixels. Ignore was clearly no longer an option.
They had found the thread. Maksim Yakubets. Duke Morcant. Sabotage. This was no longer about numbers in a ledger; it was an active conspiracy aimed at tearing the kingdom apart from within. And they were all staring at him, the so-called "Genius Prince," to deliver a brilliant countermove.
He had nothing.
He tried to think like a strategist. What would King Alaric do? Perhaps launch a direct assault on Yakubets' manor. What would a general in a game do? Send an assassin unit to eliminate the target. Both sounded like quick ways to get killed.
So then—what would Alfin Leontarde, a project manager whose expertise lay in simplifying complex problems and delegating tasks, do?
His gaze dropped to the report on his desk. Salt and iron. Two commodities. Both controlled by one man, Maksim Yakubets, through his position as Head of the Merchant Guild.
Where does a merchant's power lie? Eldrin thought, his mind shifting to familiar ground. Not in his sword. Not in his soldiers. His power lay in his goods. In his warehouses.
If you want to catch a rat, you don't burn down the house. You close off the holes and take away its food.
A plan began to take shape in his mind. Not heroic. Not brilliant. But the simplest, most bureaucratic plan—and, most importantly, one that kept him far from bloodshed.
Eldrin raised his head, his mask of calm once more perfectly in place.
"Commander Gregor," he said, his voice steady. "Seal every major warehouse owned by the Merchant Guild in Nightholm. Conduct a full audit."
Gregor frowned. "An audit, Your Highness?"
"An audit," Eldrin repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "Every sack of grain, every crate of salt, every bar of iron. Count everything. Match it with the income and expense records Dunstan gave me. I want to know where every last copper coin has gone."
He turned to Philip Hanssen, whose eyes were alight with eagerness. "Captain Hanssen, you will lead this audit operation. Take two platoons. I want a full report on my desk within two days."
He paused, then added the finishing touch. "No one is allowed in or out of those warehouses until I give further orders. This is a royal decree."
Leaning back in his chair, he felt the weight of exhaustion pressing in. "That is all. Carry it out."
For a moment, the two commanders were stunned, struggling to process the unexpected order. Not an arrest. Not an interrogation. An audit. An administrative maneuver.
And then, understanding dawned.
Gregor, the seasoned veteran, saw it first. This wasn't merely an audit. It was a siege. An economic siege. Without shedding a drop of blood, the Prince had just strangled the revenue stream and operational power of Maksim Yakubets. He had publicly reaffirmed royal authority over the guild, a powerful message to every wavering noble.
Philip saw it as bold and decisive—a way to corner the rat, to flush it from its hole. With the warehouses under control, they controlled the evidence.
And from the shadows, Caelan perceived even more layers—whether they truly existed or not.
Extraordinary… he thought, that cold admiration stirring again. He hasn't struck the pawn, Yakubets. He's overturned the entire chessboard. He's transformed a risky military confrontation into an economic and political crisis for his enemy. By calling it an "audit," he has seized control of their logistics, secured the evidence of their crimes, and simultaneously positioned himself as a hero safeguarding the people's supply—all in a single order.
Three moves ahead, as always.
"As you command, Your Highness!" Gregor and Philip said in unison, this time with unshakable conviction.
The Warehouse District of Nightholm was a maze of narrow streets, reeking of wheat dust and rust. Here pulsed the economic lifeblood of the capital. And that day, the pulse stopped.
Captain Philip Hanssen arrived with two platoons of the Royal Guard, their synchronized boots echoing between the tall stone buildings. Citizens and dockworkers halted, watching with a mix of fear and curiosity.
At the gates of the Merchant Guild's main warehouse, a dozen burly mercenaries blocked their path. Their leader, a scarred bald man, stepped forward.
"This is private property of the Merchant Guild," he growled. "The Royal Guard has no jurisdiction here."
Philip did not flinch. He signaled, and a royal scribe stepped forward, unrolling a parchment sealed with fresh royal wax.
"In the name of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont and for the security of the Realm," Philip's voice rang clear and commanding, "all assets of the Merchant Guild in the capital are hereby frozen for the purpose of a royal audit. Any who obstruct will be deemed guilty of treason."
The word "treason" hung in the air like an executioner's blade. The mercenaries exchanged glances. They were paid to be tough, not to be martyrs. To fight the Royal Guard was one thing. To defy a direct decree from the Prince was another.
Seeing their hesitation, Philip gestured. "Open the gates."
The Royal Guard advanced with shields raised. After a tense moment, the mercenary leader cursed under his breath and waved his men aside.
The gates creaked open.
News spread through Nightholm like wildfire. In the Yawning Lion Tavern, Galvan the jaded veteran snorted. "An audit? Just a show. The nobles are only shifting gold from one pocket to another."
But Lizzie, the practical mother who had paid twice as much for a small sack of salt the day before, felt a spark of hope. "At least… someone's doing something."
In his lavish study, Duke Morcant hurled his wineglass into the fireplace. Red wine splashed across the hot brick, hissing like blood on coals.
"An audit?" he roared, his normally composed face flushed with fury. "He dares conduct an audit?!"
Harold Whitney took a cautious step back, pale-faced. Wayne Dahmer remained motionless in the corner, though even his shadow seemed taut with tension.
Morcant paced like a lion in a cage. This was a crushing blow. Not military, but far more painful. Eldrin had frozen his assets, seized potential evidence, and worst of all, he had done it under the banner of "justice for the people."
He had lost an entire round.
"That boy…" Morcant hissed, halting before the fire. For the first time, he did not see merely a weak nephew or a nuisance to be brushed aside. He saw an adversary. A chess player who had just countered with an unexpected and deeply wounding move.
"He has just declared war," he said softly, his voice now cold and dangerous once more.
He turned to Wayne Dahmer.
"Answer his challenge."