The coals in the fireplace were still glowing, just barely. The faint smell of charred pine mingled with the air, and a soft crackle of a last ember punctuated the silence, providing a low, steady heat that hadn't quite given up from the night before.Harold stood in the doorway of the Lord's Hall, arms folded, one boot resting on the threshold like he was debating whether actually to leave.Harold shifted his weight back and forth, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his folded arms. He glanced back over his shoulder, a small frown creasing his brow as he rubbed a sore spot on his knee, reluctant to join the soldiers gathering for drills.The barracks field was already filling — soldiers gathering in clusters, stretching, tightening straps, getting ready for drills. Garrick's voice carried even from here, barking cadence before the sun was fully up.Harold sighed.It wasn't that he hated the drills. But every joint hurt, and he'd been up late watching Elia thread mana through a damn kettle. And it would all feel more reasonable if he could start the day with a hot cup of coffee. Or end it with a beer. Either. He wasn't picky.But no. Still no beans. Still no hops. There was some wheat, but it was needed for food. Still no miracles.He ran a hand over his face and blinked at the gray sky. Then the world blinked back.WORLD FIRSTDUNGEON CLEAREDPerk Gained — Expert Dungeoneers• Adventurers from Harold's Landing gain a +20% increased chance to earn a perk from Dungeon Bosses on their first clear.• First-time dungeon chest rewards are increased by 50%.Harold froze.The message burned into the back of his mind with that now-familiar finality. Last time a Lord claimed this perk on the far side of the human sphere — and his adventurers became the best in the world. They held the line against other races on the strength of arms alone.Perks from dungeon bosses were rare. This perk made them far more tangible. As long as there were dungeons to run, Harold's Landing had a future.The corner of his mouth twitched. Sarah was successful.A cough behind him broke the moment.He turned to see a young woman — one of Caldwell's daughters — standing awkwardly, trying not to interrupt."Dad says he needs you at the treasury. Said it's important, Mr. Lord""Of course it is," Harold muttered, looking at the woman owlishly from the corner of his eye. She met his gaze momentarily, the silence hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. He knew she was doing it on purpose, but he just couldn't prove it.He gave one last glance toward the barracks field — Garrick was already pointing at a slate and probably assigning someone to run drills with weighted poles again.Harold sighed again and stepped out into the cold."Tell Mr. Caldwell I'll be there after the morning drills, please."Then, muttering more to himself than anyone else:"Just one cup of coffee. That's all I'm asking."By the time Harold made it back across the settlement, the sun was properly up — a pale gold smudge behind heavy gray clouds. The air still held its bite, but the cold felt cleaner after drills. Or maybe that was just exhaustion talking.He was sweating again. Dust clung to his sleeves, his thighs ached, and the spot where Garrick had jabbed him in the ribs with a training pole was starting to bruise.Beside him, Garrick strolled like he hadn't even broken a sweat.Harold wiped a hand across his face. "If I don't get to use that bath tonight—""You won't," Garrick said immediately. "Promised it to one of the kids. He puked during formation drills and still finished the set.""Strategic vomit," Harold muttered. "He's playing the long game.""He earned it," Garrick said, chuckling.They passed between two storage sheds, both still roofless, logs stacked nearby like ribs waiting to be set. At the far end of the lane stood the treasury — or what passed for it.It wasn't impressive.The building had a solid, squared foundation of genuine stone quarried and hauled from Lira's mine, each slab a testament to effort and craftsmanship. Its walls were like a patchwork, reinforced with uneven bricks from the first successful kiln run by Beth and Josh, a mixed testament to progress. Thick timbers made up the primary structure, fitted with a rustic hardness, sealed with layers of mud and resin.There were no windows. The door was oak, warped slightly but thick, and banded with a single strip of darkened metal across the middle. No lock — just a wooden latch pegged into place, and two Legionnaires standing nearby with their helmets under one arm.The guard straightened when he saw Harold approach. Garrick gave him a nod, and the man stepped aside without comment.Inside, the room was cooler than outside, shaded and still. The walls were lined with shelving built from reclaimed planks. Neat bundles of dried herbs were tied with cordage and labeled with slate. Clay jars sat in rows, sealed with wax. A few wide, woven baskets held bundled cloth, twine, old nails, iron scraps, or strips of hide. There were very few barrels, maybe two, tucked in the back, and no crates at all. Preserved food was staged in the back. Near the edge of one shelf, a cracked jar contained the last grains of salt, each one precious and dwindling, a silent reminder of the scarcity Harold faced. They still hadn't found any salt, and it was quickly becoming an issue. There was only so much smoked meat he could handle.The center of the room held a long worktable. Behind it sat Mr. Caldwell.He had three slates laid out before him — two covered in tight rows of numbers, the third a rough ledger divided into columns. He didn't look up."You're late," he said, still writing. "Let me guess — Garrick made you run again.""I run when I have to," Harold said, stepping inside. "And I regret it every time."Caldwell gave a noncommittal grunt. Then, I finally looked up. He saw Garrick standing quietly behind Harold, laughing to himself."Alright," he said, gesturing toward the wall behind him. "Let's talk about what we have, what we don't, and who's been skimming off the top."Harold raised an eyebrow."This sounds like the beginning of a very encouraging conversation," Harold muttered."Alright," Caldwell said, sliding a slate across the table. "Here's what we've spent in the last five days."Harold leaned over the rough table. The slate was etched in clean lines — categories, tallies, short-hand values. It wasn't pretty, but it was consistent."Five more chickens?" Harold asked."Forum trade," Caldwell said. "Two hens, three roosters. Better than eggs. We traded a cracked loom and some of the dried apples for them."Harold frowned. "I didn't know we had a loom."Caldwell looked up briefly. "I had a simple floor loom made, but it cracked. We've got some flax variant growing nearby — we gathered what we could, and I wanted to try spinning it. That loom was a pain to move to the Stele for the trade. And that idiot traded us the chickens without a cage, and we spent the next 30 minutes running them down."He shrugged. "Figured I'd try to sell the loom. The lord on the other end bought it to use as a model for his own people."Harold looked at him, a little surprised. "That's good thinking."He scanned lower on the slate. "How many bricks did we get from the last kiln firing?""Not enough," Caldwell muttered. "Clay didn't settle evenly. We got twenty-four usable, six cracked. Those went into the new hall and reinforced the treasury wall here."Harold nodded toward the floor. "The stone?""Lira's people again. Dragged it up from the mine with what little ore they're still getting. Every block was a twelve-person job. She's prioritizing ore, but without real picks, it's slow. I'm trying to avoid buying ore off the forum — it's going at a premium right now."Harold rubbed the side of his jaw. "Fair."Caldwell grabbed another slate and turned it toward him. This one was shorter — but labeled in bold, chalky letters:Inventory Discrepancies"Three jars of resin are missing over two days—one bundle of cordage. Someone took a jar of dried peppermint. That one's a favorite among, well… everyone. They chew it for focus."Harold's brow furrowed. "Small stuff.""Exactly," Caldwell said. "Someone is being careful. I wouldn't call it sabotage — just lifting what they think won't be missed.""You think it's someone from inside?" Harold asked."I know it is. They're only taking things from the lower shelves. Always when the room's quiet and it's the same pattern.""What about the guards?""Already rotated one out with Garrick there," Caldwell said. "He didn't make a fuss. If it gets worse, I'll bring it up at the meeting."Harold gave a slow nod. "What's our silver and gold count?"Caldwell moved to the side and pulled an expansive basket from a mid-shelf. Inside were rough clay bowls lined with dried grass. But nestled within were glints of dull silver and the deeper yellow of raw gold — nuggets, shavings, even a melted lump about the size of a fist.It was more than Harold expected."From potion sales, mostly," Caldwell said. "Still raw. I've sorted it by weight. If we melt it, we can cast something passable."Harold crouched, inspecting. "Not coins, though.""Not yet. But we can make and stamp them," Caldwell said. "I had a metal punch made —it's crude, but it leaves a mark. Enough to prove authenticity if someone tries to shave or chip them."He tapped the table. "Also… a silversmith came through the portal yesterday. He's a Novice, but he's good with tools. If we build a small crucible, we could put him to work.""Ok... what's your idea?""A basic pay model. Start small—token wages to laborers, builders, runners — anyone working for the settlement. The amount doesn't matter right now. It's the principle."Harold raised a brow."We track what people earn," Caldwell continued. "Later, they can use that for goods, trade perks, and first pick on gear. Makes them feel like they have a stake. I've already asked a few people if they would like it and it was a resounding yes."Harold glanced at the melted silver. "And when the ore runs out?"Caldwell smirked. "We get more. You said yourself there's silver in the hills. And if we keep the potions flowing, that Lord on the forum will keep buying. Word is, he's got a mine but can't keep the monsters off it. His adventurers can't hold the territory."Harold's eyes narrowed. "I think I know who you mean. He was the first to mint coins last time. Got a good perk from it, too."He paused. "Still. We're not mining until we can support ourselves. Food first. Then housing. Thensilver."Caldwell gave a dry laugh. "So you do listen. But that minting perk seems useful."Harold stood and walked over to the slate wall. His finger tapped a column labeled:Private Holdings — still empty."No one's earned enough to spend," he said."Yet," Caldwell replied. "But when they do? They'll remember who made it possible."Harold shot him a sharp look, but Caldwell didn't flinch. Then he softened — just a little."It doesn't have to be a real economy yet," Caldwell said. "But people work better when they believe their effort leads somewhere. You want them loyal? Give them something that's theirs."Harold didn't argue. "Alright," he said finally. "Let's do it. But keep a reserve. If we need to make emergency purchases, I don't want to be scraping coins off the floor."Caldwell nodded."And if we're minting anything," Harold added, "we're doing it right. Bring that silversmith to the morning meeting. If he's handling the wealth of the Landing, he's taking an oath."Caldwell looked hesitant for a second before asking what was bothering him. "Why do we care about gold and silver? We don't stick with the barter system? We'd make a killing with the potions right now."Harold looked at him and walked over to the crate to sit on it. He closed his eyes, debating how much to tell Caldwell before finally figuring there was no reason to keep it close. "I know I told you about the natural races that actually are from here. They have cities and territory of their own. They're some of the most powerful races here. But they trade in silver and gold. Bronze too for their small coins, but if we want to trade with them, we will need. They have all the best tech, but there is one item we need to buy from them as soon as possible, and I'll leave it at that." Harold paused, his eyes fixing on a distant point as if seeing something Caldwell couldn't. "Let's just say, it's a tool of such devastating precision that, if wielded right and a little human knowledge, it could tip the balance in ways we haven't even dared to imagine yet."
