Chapter 241: Money Wears Perfume
Garen rises from the table, stubbing out the cigar in the ashtray beside him.
Until that moment, he seemed almost too comfortable for a king. He wore a light, thick, soft tunic, open at the neck, with discreet embroidery in deep blue along the sleeves. No crown. No ceremonial cloak. Just dark trousers, well-kept boots, and a presence that could walk into a room in rags and still make everyone remember where the throne was.
Then his posture changes.
It isn’t dramatic. It’s imposing.
His shoulders square, his chin drops a fraction, and the calm of a good-humored man gives way to something else. A king on his way to meet people he’d rather drown.
"I have to go," Garen says, loosening the collar of his tunic. "I’ve got unwelcome people to meet."
He snaps his fingers in front of his body.
The armor appears.
It simply materializes over him, replacing the comfortable fabric with a fully matte navy-blue structure, silent, perfectly fitted. The surface is adorned discreetly, lines of darker metal crossing the shoulders, chest, and arms like currents of water under ice. Nothing shines too much. Nothing shouts.
The complete opposite of Veric’s armor.
He used an instant equipment swap. A common technique among high Ranks. For mere low-Rank mortals, it’s a needless burn of OXI with a taste of vanity. For Garen, it’s probably like putting on his shoes.
"Show-off," Veric says, smiling at his father.
Garen ignores him with ease, as if he’s been practicing since the boy was born.
He leaves without saying goodbye. With every step toward the door, his face closes off, grows darker, as if the corridor ahead is already full of enemies before he even crosses the arch.
That tells me more than any explanation could.
He isn’t going to talk to suppliers, nobles, or some incompetent mayor. The armor gives it away, and the expression confirms it.
"Deepwarden?" I ask Veric.
"Cretins," he answers, the humor draining out of his voice. "They think they can control my father."
"And they can."
Veric looks at me but doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t need to. The truth doesn’t always demand a defense, because there is none.
There’s no precise way to know the Deepwarden’s current structure, but I can estimate. Probably eleven official branches, maybe a few more if you count the smaller arms still hidden behind contracts. Each guild holds up to a hundred members, so we’re talking somewhere near eleven hundred people carrying the same name.
The Deepwarden is simple on the surface. They name each branch by number. That number gets traded among them every six months, because it marks strength, performance, influence, and combat power. A mobile hierarchy, competitive and easy to read from the outside.
On the inside, it’s another thing.
Ten years from now, that count will pass thirteen thousand direct members, maybe more. Their branches reach far beyond the Deepwarden name. Companies, informants, associated guilds, temporary contractors, bought families, pressured governments. That’s how political monsters grow. Not by occupying a building. By occupying dependencies.
"I have to go too," I announce. "The meeting starts soon, and I want to arrive first, just to be safe."
"You want to show up early to a meeting with the Silver Fang," Veric says. "Is that maturity or paranoia?"
"Both. When it works, they call it preparation."
Oliver crosses his arms.
"Want an escort?"
"Not inside. If they wanted to kill me at the bar, they’d pick somewhere cheaper. But I want you ready afterward. Zhang Xi also made it clear it was just the three of us."
Rhayne watches me closely and asks without even thinking.
"Afterward where?"
"The southwest quadrant plaza by the academy. An isolated spot. When I’m done, meet me there. Go as a group."
Oliver scratches his beard, visibly reluctant.
"Boss, I can’t today. The workers are trickling in for the selection. I have to sort names, roles, housing, who can handle a machine and who can only carry a crate without falling on top of it."
Oliver is right. That matters more than escorting me right now. A badly organized factory on day one becomes a fire before the first batch.
"Excused," I say.
Oliver raises an eyebrow.
"Seriously?"
"Just today. Don’t get attached," I joke.
He nods, far too pleased for a man who just earned more work, and grins.
Veric points at himself with his thumb.
"And me?"
"You’re going."
"Of course I’m going. When you say ’go as a group,’ it usually means someone’s planning to kill us, kidnap us, or sue us."
"Exactly."
Rhayne, her voice firm now, nods as well.
"I’m going."
I check the time.
[18:32]
The official meeting Zhang Xi arranged is at seven o’clock sharp. Comet Tail, plaza number eighteen, corner of Caterpillar Street. A luxury bar. Exactly the kind of place where the rich pretend to talk while pricing out a war.
I leave the castle without wasting more time.
Azure Prime starts shifting its rhythm as night approaches. The commercial streets light runes along their facades, and the glow of the ocean sky above deepens, reflecting in the high windows as if the whole city were submerged in blue glass.
Caterpillar Street sits in a district too noble to be casual. Fewer vendors shouting, more silent carriages. Less smell of street food, more expensive perfume and filtered OXI.
’I wonder why people wear perfume in Thirstfall...’
Plaza number eighteen is circular, paved in pale stone and crossed by narrow channels of suspended water that run in impossible lines a few inches above the ground. At the center, a glass sculpture depicts a sea serpent coiled around a falling star.
The Comet Tail takes the widest corner.
The building seems designed to make a client feel inadequate before they even step inside. Polished obsidian facade, matte silver detailing, tall double doors of darkened glass, and a minimalist sign glowing in pale gold. No excess. No shouting. True luxury rarely needs to raise its voice.
I go in.
The interior is even worse.
Low music, spaced tables, warm light trapped inside translucent runic globes. The smell is a mix of whisky, treated wood, and some faint incense that probably cost more than I paid for Eventide. Everyone here wears money in a different way. Some like silk. Others like silence.
What stands out most is that the majority of the people present are Drowneds. Grinders who aren’t afraid to show themselves.
The attendant who comes to greet me is a Diver, Rank A. Tall, in a black suit, hair tied back, white gloves, a neutral expression, and an energy too controlled for a simple employee. Somewhere else, he’d be leading a combat team. Here, he guides clients to reserved tables. That says plenty about the clientele.
"Mister Dryden Sands," he says, without asking. "The Silver Fang’s room is ready."
"Am I early?"
"Anticipated punctuality is a virtue our guests appreciate."
In other words: yes.
He leads me down a side corridor, away from the main hall. The doors we pass carry runic insulation, near-absolute silence. No sound truly leaks out. Just enough to notice it’s been scrambled, blurred, reminding me that secrets are being bought in encrypted rooms.
The reserved room sits at the end of the corridor.
Round, elegant, with a low table at the center, three seats, dark blue walls, and a wide window showing the lit plaza outside. A tea tray waits untouched. No one has arrived yet.
Good.
I take the seat that lets me watch the door and the window at the same time.
My body is calm. My mind, not so much.
In my past life, I met the leader of the Silver Fang. And that makes everything harder.
Negotiating with strangers is simple. You read, test, push, retreat. Negotiating with someone you’ve watched make impossible decisions ten years in the future is another thing entirely. Memory becomes an advantage and a trap at once.
The cup of tea sends up an inviting curl of steam in front of me.
I don’t touch it.
At seven o’clock exactly, the handle turns.
