07:10 a.m. - At Technologia Chemical Laboratory, Frosthaven (13 December 2025)
It had been a long night and a longer set of months. Ryan set the ledger down and stared at the line he had written: 29/09/2025 -> 13/12/2025. The date stared back like a clean fact. He had been in Aurelthorn almost three months now. He had moved fast and kept his head beneath skirts of work.
A low smell of soap and hot fat filled the lab. The kettle rested. The sand glass was turned neat. Jars sat on racks, folded collars marked with the hidden knurl. The team moved like a small machine—exact, slow, useful.
Ryan (smiles): "We finished the formula two weeks after I left Dawnspire. It held."
Sariel (nods): "We tested three batches in different water. The third version stayed soft, not bitter. The dyers like it. The rope‑walk men do too."
Peter (proud): "Men in the rope house said their hands stopped burning by the third day. They cried a little because it felt like magic."
Murdock (gruff laugh): "Magic from fat and lye. That is the best kind."
Ryan set his hands on the bench. He felt tired in his chest, but a simple kind of proud tired.
Ryan (quiet): "It took two weeks to perfect the soap and the line. Two weeks to teach them the checks. Then three weeks for the books. I put together short translations of science books—easy pages so they can learn on their own."
Sariel (curious): "You translated whole chapters in your sleep."
Ryan (sheepish): "I did a lot of late nights. The internet in my head still shows me how to write a clear step. I decided the workers should learn the why, not just the how."
Jory (practical): "The clay ovens and the baffles worked. I patched the rope-walk kitchen. Little tiles. Little vents. Bread might stop fighting people now."
Ryan (laugh): "You did that for bread too?"
Murdock (touches a jar): "We did that for everything. Make a thing that people can follow. That is the trick. Not magic. Rules."
A quiet settled. They all had work marks—hands with small scars from kettles and trowels. Ryan liked seeing that. It made the world feel honest.
Ryan (decisive): "I am moving back to Dawnspire today. I will run the branch there. Sariel, you stay here. You keep the Frosthaven factory steady."
Sariel (straight): "I will. I made the job sheets. I wrote who does what and when. Nothing moves without the two‑person sign."
Peter (bright): "And I teach the letters. I will not let boys think coat buttons are numbers anymore."
Murdock (half-smile): "I will keep one hand on the fire. You take the other farm and bring back coin."
Ryan (grins): "I will. And I need you to keep a list of any strange men who come asking odd things."
Sariel (firm): "We already do that. We have a gate log. We check names. If someone asks about the formula, we stop them at the door."
Ryan (nods): "Good. We keep the line separate. We keep the people who know pieces only seeing those pieces."
He felt the old pull to be everywhere. Running a company was new to him. He had learned that being everywhere killed things. Trust fixed it—put those who could think into posts where they could think.
Ryan (soft): "My phone and the gadgets—laptop, the power pack—ran out while I was here. They have been dead for weeks. I don't know how to get back to the Space House now. The Domain won't help if I can't trigger it."
Sariel (tilts head): "You mean you cannot leap back to that room?"
Ryan (shake): "The batteries died. I tried everything. Maybe it is a power thing. Maybe I broke how it answers. I do not want to test my death to try and find out."
Peter (worried): "You used the Domain once and the black hole thing — that was nonsense. You do not need it to run here."
Ryan (half-laugh): "I know." He swallowed. "But the Domain was a safe place. It is strange to be without that option."
Murdock (gruff): "You made a company without it and you are fine."
Ryan looked at his team. They were solid. They had hands that could hold a line.
Ryan (warm): "Sariel, if I do not return, you are technically CEO. You can make calls. Use the stamps. But only call me for the big things. I trust you."
Sariel (steady, then half-smile): "I will use the stamp and the ledger and I will not bother you about whether the kettle is one finger too hot."
Peter (quick): "And I will tell you if the bread ever fights back."
They all laughed. The laugh moved the last cloud of weight from the room.
Ryan (quiet): "I will set an intern in Dawnspire as co‑CEO. He knows how to push and to yell when money is late. I need someone who can be loud and make decisions when I'm not there."
Murdock (bark): "You pick someone who can fix a wheel and also use a pen?"
Ryan (shrug): "Yes. Someone who can do both."
He packed a small bag. He put the leather notebook where he kept lists in a safe pocket. He kissed the back of his hand out of habit—an old ritual to remind himself of the life he came from.
Ryan (resolute): "Alright. I go. Keep the soap brand clean. If a jar fails, we replace it on the spot. If someone lies about a trade, we call witnesses. If Varena or anyone comes sniffing, Sariel, you call me first."
Sariel (nods): "I will."
He walked to the door and felt the cold air. The sky was grey and steady. He saddled Snowball—Antlersteed had that slow, warm breath he had learned to trust. He left Frosthaven with a small crate full of jars to sell in Dawnspire and a head full of quiet plans.
29/09/2025 -> 13/12/2025. Two months and change. He had built a soap that people would mention when they spoke of clean hands. That felt good.
11:40 a.m. - At Merchant Guild, Dawnspire
It took 10 days from Frosthaven to Dawnspire before Ryan finally arrived. The Guild Annex was bright, brass and stone. A winter sun pressed clean through the high windows. Merchants and clerks moved in the way of people who watch numbers like a prayer.
Ryan walked through the doors and his boots made a crisp sound on the stone. He had Snowball tied just outside, the antler harness covered with a thick blanket. He had three crates with him. He also had the clean feeling of things that worked.
The clerks looked up. Some faces showed true welcome. Some showed the small cold of rivalry.
Baldric (folds arms): "Master Mercer. You returned fast."
Ryan (smiles): "I returned to check accounts and to pay the Guild loan. We move fast but we keep our books honest."
Sariel had sent the papers ahead. Baldric opened the pack and read the lines. He liked that Ryan wrote the truth and kept to it.
Baldric (slow nod): "You paid a good portion. The Guild likes men who pay early."
Ryan (plain): "We control float. We do not promise coin until it is there. That is how we keep warm in a cold market."
A clerk near the board muttered. It was the same voice that had watched him on his first visit—small and sharp.
Clerk (low): "The pens took the nobles by surprise. Steel nibs make writing easy for men who sign long oaths."
Ryan (quiet joy): "They work well in the rain and in ink. They do not break like quills."
Baldric (eyeing him): "And crossbows?"
Ryan (proud): "In production now. Bromar Ironbeard and his crew helped make the first batch. They are holding to the blueprints. They are quick and strong."
Baldric (honest): "If you keep the line clean and pay the Guild, you will find warm rooms here."
Ryan (nod): "That is the plan."
A hush moved the chamber—like a net. Two men near the shadowed wall spoke too softly but with a voice meant to be heard.
Odrik (oily): "So the boy makes money. He runs a shop and sells jars in Frosthaven. He makes pens and sells crossbows. Is there anything he does not try to steal?"
Varena (calm, measured): "He makes money people like because he is cheap at the start. He takes the market with speed. Markets hate speed; they like to set a slow wheel. He is a problem."
Ryan heard the names like a sharp stone: Odrik Stoneveil and Varena Kestrel. He had suspected them before when the three hired men had come to silence him. He had suspected they hired for profit and protection. Now he saw them within the Guild's quiet.
Ryan (soft): "I don't want to take any single person's work. I want to offer options. I do not sell shadows. I sell things that work."
Varena (tilts chin): "Options are fine until they cut your margin. We prefer predictable lines. We can buy predictability."
Odrik (smile too wide): "And if the market gets rough, we fix it. People forget kindness when coin is on the table."
Baldric (stern): "Keep your talk about fixing out of Guild halls with threats and you will be fine."
Ryan (steady): "I will. I want to work under rules. That is why I pay the Guild. I do not want hidden knives here."
Varena's dark eyes flicked to Ryan, then to Baldric, then back to the crates. She kept her hands folded like a secret.
Varena (businesslike): "Your pens are in demand. That is your power. You could sell us exclusivity and spare yourself noisy enemies."
Ryan (quiet): "I do not want exclusivity that ties my hands."
Varena (threatening): "Make this worth my time, or I will find someone who will."
Ryan (measured): "You will find my price is open. If you want a long term order, talk numbers. If you want to try to buy me quiet, you will pay more than my books show."
A soft laugh came from a clerk at the corner—someone who liked the theatre of trade. Ryan felt the small coils of market heat. He had built a line that ran honest. That made enemies and friends on the same page.
Baldric (sharp): "Show me your payment plan for the Guild loan and I will make this annex warm to you."
Ryan (slides the papers): "Here. We hold two weeks of wages in reserve. We cap float at two days. We pay guild tranches first."
Baldric (reads, then nods): "You keep to this and the Guild will keep the docks open for your crates. If you trip, we will note it."
Ryan (smile): "I will bring coin. Not excuses."
Odrik (mutter): "Coin or not, there will be ways to copy what you make."
Ryan (flat): "You can copy a thing. You cannot copy the rules behind it. We will teach them to people who will keep them. We will make sure the mark on the jar is known. If someone sells a fake, they will learn that lies cost them their market."
Varena (cold): "We will see."
Ryan felt that small hot line of worry—someone had whispered rumor about the dungeon and his name. He had expected the Temple to move. He had expected whispering teeth to show.
Ryan (quiet to Baldric): "Thank you for the warm rooms. We will ship a crate to the northern ward in two days. We will send one to the docks and one to the rope-walk market. We will replace any jar that fails."
Baldric (grunts): "Good. Keep the line clean."
He left the Guild with the squint of merchants on him and the cool of two names who watched profits like sharp knives.
04:00 p.m. - At Technologia Factory, Dawnspire
The old shed had grown up into a factory. Wood still held the bones, but stone and iron had been added. A small fan whirred above the door. Hammers and a press sat where logs had once waited. The sign read "Technologia" with the same crooked letters Ryan had painted himself when the place was a dream.
He dismounted Snowball and felt the home-run of air in the city. The pens sold for a good price at the noble tables. The crossbows were coming along. Craftsmen were there—the same men he trusted and a few new faces. The sound of a new machine—the simple water wheel for a steamless engine—thudded in the back like a slow heart.
An intern ran up with a satchel. He was bright eyed and small, with quick hands and a sharper tongue. Ryan had met him in the market when the man had fixed a pulley in half the time anyone thought possible. Ryan had hired him as an intern. He had been good enough to be made co‑CEO.
Aidan (bows): "Master Ryan. You are back."
Ryan (grins): "Aidan. Good. How are the lines?"
Aidan (proud): "Pens first. Crossbows second. We started a small chart so buyers can see lead times. I moved the dispatch to three clerks instead of one. If you want to be gone, I can push trains."
Ryan (tests him): "You will sign for major decisions when I am away."
Aidan (steady): "I will sign. I will call you for the big bets."
Murdock (nods from the forge): "Good lad. He can take a shock and not cry."
Aidan (sharp smile): "I prefer not crying."
Ryan felt better leaving Dawnspire in hands that would make noise when needed. It was a strange thing for an old introvert to do—pick someone loud. But the company needed noise outside the doors.
They walked the shop. Jars were there, pens were there. Bromar's mark was proud on the crossbows. He had put dwarven care into the wood and metal. The first crossbows came with a small note from Bromar: "If a man forgets safety, he will not shoot again." Ryan had stamped the note.
He was checking a press when the door opened and three figures walked in—robes, not the guild gray or the merchant brown. White and gold with silver threads. The air seemed to bite at them in a way the others did not. They wore the look of men who carry the Temple's hunger.
The room went still.
One stepped forward. He wore no smile.
Inquisitor (steps forward): "Mr. Ryan Mercer, you are suspected of being a murderer in the Frosthaven dungeon."
The words hit like a stone into a quiet pond. Ryan blinked. He did not like the sound behind them, a rumor sharpened into a charge.
Ryan (tilt head, calm): "Who says so?"
Inquisitor (steady): "A miner who worked the pit in Frosthaven. He says you were seen. He says you left men in a hole. He says men who asked about your jars did not come home."
Aidan (sharp): "We have records of the crate orders. These men were not on our lists."
Sariel (voice from the doorway, firm): "We have the gate log. We check who left and who came in. They did not come via our door."
Inquisitor (cold): "The miner gave a name. He wound a tale of black water and men who fell. The Temple is only asking questions now. You will come with us to answer."
Ryan felt something small and useful click inside him. A plan he had not known he had. If there was a person who ordered the murder, that person would need to come to the inquiry. The Temple's summons would pull the rope tight and show the face that threw the rock.
Ryan (small smile): "I will go. I will answer under witness."
Inquisitor (unsmiling): "We will set a time for early morn. Do not make trouble. The Temple seeks truth."
Varena (enters like a shadow, mild): "You will find truth and profit change hands quickly. If I can help the Temple, I will."
Odrik (shadowy grin): "And if you need a porter, I know a hundred who will run where coin runs faster."
Ryan watched the men and women who came in like a web. He felt an odd thrill—not the kind from machines or code, but the kind that told him he would learn who had pressed a button he had not felt.
Ryan (calm): "Set the time. I will bring my papers and my witnesses."
Inquisitor (nods): "We will call witnesses. We will call the miner and the porter who saw him. And the man who signs the order."
Aidan (brave): "You will not find lies. We keep our books open."
Murdock (growls): "And if anyone tries to buy a lie, they will meet the forge."
The Inquisitor's face did not change, but Ryan saw a small jar of unease curve at the edges of the robe. The Temple liked plays. They liked lines that made people cry. So Ryan would not give them a show. He would give them papers, witnesses, and he would watch who moved when the net closed.
Ryan (quiet): "If they call me a murderer in public, I will ask for a private inquiry. If they want drama, they will not get it. They will get witnesses and the ledger."
Inquisitor (nods): "We will do the proper order. We do not leap to burn."
Varena (smooth): "Some people prefer a quick end. Others prefer to buy the silence."
Odrik (sly): "Either way, merchants will sell what the crowd wants."
Ryan (low): "The man who set this will come to the inquiry if he wants to hide. He will not be able to hide forever."
He had a guess. He had two suspects and one motive: control of supply, fear of competition. He had no proof yet. The Temple's call might give that proof.
Aidan (leans close): "If they name you before witnesses, I will make sure the press people print the ledger lines with the buyers' names."
Ryan (half-grin): "Good. Make sure the press knows we replace failed jars and keep the books open."
Murdock (steady): "And I will keep the crossbows under lock until the Guild gives us a safe day to ship."
The Temple left with their quiet weight. The factory hummed again, but the sound had a different tone—sharp and aware. Ryan felt the net tighten, but this time he had time to think. The inquiry would bring faces. That was a good thing.
Ryan (soft): "If they want a show, we will not give them that. We will give facts. We will bring the miner to the table and see what his voice is made of. If someone paid him to speak, he will slip. They always do."
He put a hand on the press and felt its warm heart. Hands, rules, time. He had learned that in Frosthaven. He would use the same rule here—same hands, more witnesses, same time. He would walk into the Temple with the ledger, the gate log, and a small army of witnesses: porters, rope-walk foremen, Murdock, Sariel, and Aidan. If the ring of suspicion narrowed to Varena or Odrik, or both, he would see the face that pushed. And when he saw it, he would know what to do.
Outside, snow moved in soft lines down the street. It felt like a different world than California, where December was the time for the first flakes. Here the world had already grown white. Dawnspire wore frost like an old mantle. Ryan felt the cold and the warm at once—cold outside, warm inside with the people who kept his line honest.
He walked out and looked at Snowball. The Antlersteed stamped and made a small cloud of breath. Ryan had a feeling that things would get messy. He did not like messy. But he also did not fear it now. He had rules. He had friends. He had a ledger.
Ryan (to himself, firm): "Hands, rules, time. The rest is noise."
He mounted Snowball and rode toward the High Temple, the crates behind him like small flags. The city watched him go—some with smiles, some with knives in the mouth of their lips. He walked into the day with his list and with a plan to make the Temple's questions into a net that would catch more than rumor.