The courtyard auction was chaos, but profitable chaos. Kaelen watched from the battlements as Elias presided over the bidding. The Star-Silver ore went for three times the expected price—merchants from Clasta and Greywalt outbidding each other for the rare mana-conductor. The Frost-Moss fetched alchemical premiums; one wizard's apprentice nearly wept over its potency, paying double the market rate for a single bundle.

  By dusk, the wagons were empty, and Blackwood's coffers were full. Not just coin—grain contracts, steel ingots, even a promise of warhorses from the south.

  Kaelen descended to the yard, where Hareth was counting the final tallies.

  "Five hundred gold marks," Steward Elian reported, grinning. "Enough to feed the Barony for two years."

  "Good," Kaelen said. "But it's not enough. Not for what's coming."

  A servant approached, bowing. "My Lord, the Guild Master of the Stackson Guild requests an audience. He says it's urgent."

  Kaelen's interest piqued. "Bring him to my study."

  ----------------------------------

  The Lord's Study was lit by oil lamps and the dying hearth. Guild Master Torvald Stackson sat at the table, a man in his fifties with a merchant's paunch, gold rings on every finger, and eyes like a hawk. He rose when Kaelen entered, but didn't bow deeply.

  "Lord Vane," Stackson said smoothly. "A pleasure. Your auction was... impressive. Where did a backwater like Blackwood find Star-Silver? And Frost-Moss of that quality?"

  Kaelen sat opposite him, gesturing for wine. "The mountains give what the mountains give, Master Stackson. The question is, what do you want?"

  Stackson leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "A deal. Exclusive. Stackson Guild handles ninety percent of Clasta's alchemical trade. We want first refusal on everything from Blackwood. Herbs, ores, furs—whatever you dig up. We'll pay premium. Twenty percent above market."

  Kaelen sipped his wine, calculating. "Generous. But why? Clasta is four days' ride. You have suppliers in Greywalt, the eastern mines."

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  Stackson smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Quality, Lord Vane. Your Frost-Moss is fresher than anything we've seen. The Star-Silver... pure. No impurities. Our alchemists are clamoring."

  Kaelen set his cup down. "And if I find something rarer? A new herb? A metal vein?"

  "First right of refusal," Stackson pressed. "Exclusive for six months. We'll front the caravans, guards, even buy the wagons. You name the quantity, we take it all."

  Kaelen leaned back, feigning thought. The truth was, he had a mountain of Star-Silver waiting—enough to flood the market. But he couldn't sell it openly. Not yet.

  The fear gnawing at him wasn't Stackson. It was Marquis Vancefort.

  The Marquis ruled the northeastern region, a lion in velvet who had conquered and submitted eight mountain tribes near his borders. He had spies everywhere, and a nose for resources that could shift power. If word spread that Blackwood was tapping the Thunder Hoof Range—Vancefort's backyard—the Marquis would investigate. And when he learned of the resources involved, Vancefort would try every means to acquire them.

  No. The Star-Silver had to flow quietly.

  "Exclusive supply sounds good," Kaelen said slowly. "But I have conditions."

  Stackson’s eyes gleamed. "Name them."

  "Secrecy," Kaelen said flatly. "No one knows where it comes from. Your manifests list it as 'Northern Prospecting Finds.' No questions about sources. No letters to contacts. If anyone asks, it's from your Greywalt holdings."

  Stackson frowned. "Secrecy clauses are expensive, Lord Vane. And risky. Why the paranoia?"

  Kaelen met his gaze. "Marquis Vancefort."

  Stackson's face paled slightly. Everyone knew the name. The Marquis had crushed the Iron Blood tribe last year, annexing their forges. He claimed all northeastern Thunder Hoof mountains as his sphere of influence.

  "Ah," Stackson murmured. "The lion of the north. Yes... discretion is wise."

  "More than wise," Kaelen said. "Necessary. You get the exclusive. We split profits sixty-forty—your guild handles transport and sales, we supply raw."

  Stackson stroked his chin. "Fifty-fifty. And you guarantee minimum quarterly shipments. Five tons of ore, ten crates of herbs."

  Kaelen shook his head. "Sixty-forty. And I guarantee what I can mine. Weather, raiders—the mountains are fickle. But you'll get priority."

  "Raiders?" Stackson probed. "Still trouble up there?"

  Kaelen smiled thinly. "Managed."

  Stackson drummed his fingers. "Fifty-five–forty-five. And we provide the mana-beasts for hauling—your roads are shit."

  "Done," Kaelen said. "And one more thing. If I need discreet transport for... sensitive items... your guild provides it. No manifests."

  Stackson's eyes narrowed. "Smuggling? That's dangerous, even for Stackson."

  "Not smuggling," Kaelen lied smoothly. "Diplomacy. Tribes. You understand."

  Stackson sighed, then extended his hand. "Fifty-five–forty-five. Secrecy absolute. Mana-beasts on demand."

  Kaelen shook it. "Sealed."

  As Stackson left, Elian entered. "Well?"

  Kaelen's mind raced. Fifty-five percent of a fortune—and cover for the Star-Silver flow. Vancefort stays blind.

  "We just bought Blackwood's future," Kaelen said. "Now... send word to the Hollow. Double the mining quotas."