A sigh escaped Francis’s lips as the only thing that filled the quiet room was the scratch of quill on parchment rhythmically.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a familiar ache settling in his lower back a constant reminder of long hours hunched over ledgers and decrees.
The cigar was placed between his index finger and middle finger as his tired eyes scanned the papers.
He was signing over a few documents, but his mind was on things that had taken place over a week back. Taking a break, he closed his eyes and thought back to things that would often flash in his mind.
His childhood.
He had started working at a young age.
From his early days as a lowly clerk, he was diligently copying figures under the watchful gaze of his predecessor, to the gradual ascent that saw him lauded for his keen organizational skills.
The memory of his initial ambition brought a bittersweet pang.
Back then, the mantle of administrator had felt like a beacon of hope.
He, Francis, a commoner born to constantly travelling merchant parents, had witnessed firsthand the toll of an inept lord on the lives of his people.
So many territories he visited had people suffering simply because the lord didn’t care and when he had gotten a sense of what profession to move towards, Francis had come to Veralt.
It was a peaceful territory back then that could be improved even more. After taking an exam for the then-administrator, he became an apprentice.
He’d dreamed of wielding the authority to carve out a better life for the territory, a haven far removed from the hardships he had seen in his childhood.
For a while, it worked.
Fields yielded bountiful harvests, trade flourished, and a sense of tentative stability settled over the land. But then, the storm clouds arrived.
The Lord’s son, his heir and confidant, was struck down by an arrow while chasing after a barbarian tribe in the army. The son died, leaving an empty shallow space in the estate itself.
Soon after that, the lord’s wife passed away from an unknown illness. Having no other children, her son’s death was too much to take for her.
The Lord himself, aged and grieving, retreated into a shell of his former self, his once-sharp mind clouded by sorrow.
Like dominoes toppling, the problems began stacking up.
A harsh winter decimated the crops, leaving the people with dwindling reserves. Bandit raids grew bolder, preying on weakened villages.
The Lord, lost in his grief, refused to acknowledge the escalating crisis, opting instead for a fatalistic wait for his demise.
Their pleas for assistance were met with a deafening silence. The ongoing Duke’s succession had thrown the entire region into political turmoil.
Urgent messages dispatched to the Duke’s house vanished, each unanswered letter a fresh wound upon their already beleaguered spirits.
The inevitable arrived finally.
The Lord succumbed to a heart attack, leaving a power vacuum in his wake. The territory, once a beacon of hope, now resembled a rudderless ship, tossed about in a sea of uncertainty.
Francis sighed again, recalling the time it all happened. He brought the cigar to his lips and let out a puff of smoke.
Then came the news.
Arzan, the Duke’s son was appointed the new Baron. Relief, laced with a sliver of trepidation, bloomed in Francis’ chest. Surely, a son of the Duke would possess the resources and resolve to pull them from the brink.
But six months had crawled by, each day a monotonous echo of the last.
Arzan, cloaked in an enigmatic aloofness, remained a distant figure. The problems, far from abating, seemed to fester. Disappointment, a bitter pill, lodged itself in Francis’ throat. Was this all they could expect from a Duke’s son?
Despair gnawed at him.
Six months under the new Baron Arzan, the territory’s situation only worsened. The coffers bled dry, a consequence of Arzan’s enigmatic spending sprees. Requests for clarification were met with a steely silence, the quite opposite of the openness Francis had craved.
"The one about the entity you work for," Francis said, leaning forward. "You do know the lord particularly doesn’t like Tradeheart right?"
"I-I do, but I thought it was just a debt..."
"It’s more than that. Do you think I would call you here simply because of an insignificant debt?"
"Then?"
"We’re conducting an investigation," Francis stated, his voice firm. "Discrepancies in your company’s activities have been flagged. Moreover, there’s a lot of evidence that your bosses had a hand in destroying a lot of businesses in the city for a monopoly. If you are not well versed in the laws, let me tell you. That’s a serious crime."
Hemlock’s face paled. "Discrepancies? I-I don’t know what you mean," he stammered.
"Don’t play coy," Francis leaned forward, his voice hardening. "You are a high-level employee who should have access to their documents. You very well know what’s going on and there’s enough merchants who would speak against Tradeheart if the lord is in their favour."
Hemlock swallowed hard, his gaze darting around the room. "I... I can’t say anything. It’s my job."
"Your job?" Francis scoffed. "Or your family’s safety? Think about it. Are the Tradeheart scraps worth risking everything for? We can offer you protection, a chance to wipe the slate clean."
A flicker of desperation flickered in the man’s eyes. He glanced at the door, then back at Francis. His lips trembled for a moment before forming a shaky whisper.
"What kind of protection?"
Francis smiled. "The kind that comes with the truth. Now, tell me everything and I will make sure you don’t have to rot in a cell as your wife is sold to a brothel."
The deal was secured with Hemlock providing evidence along with many others. It seemed like a peek into Francis’ ruthless side was enough for the meek man to help them out.
Weeks led into months.
The days were a relentless tide of paperwork, interviews, and late-night strategy sessions.
Along the way, Arzan’s expenditure to find the necromancer was brutal. They lost a few guards but managed to cease the threat. The next few weeks went by with Killian training what they called the Enforcers.
Although Francis had yet to see their prowess, he knew Killian seemed much stronger after turning into one.
According to Arzan, he would see their powers against Erasmus Thorne, the head of Tradeheart in Veralt.
The conversation a day before the raid on the Tradeheart office was still fresh in Francis’ mind.
Arzan’s eyes scanned the pages of evidence Francis collected. Along with the parchments, there were written testimonies of merchants and Hemlock, alongside a few more people.
"I didn’t get everything, my Lord," Francis concluded, "but it’s enough to raise eyebrows. Enough to get Erasmus scrambling," Francis said in a whisper with papers thrown on top of the table.
Arzan gave a genuine smile.
"This is more than what I could ask to bring those bastards down. Good job, Francis," he said while his eyes went back to the papers.
A hint of pride beamed in his heart as he felt like he finally did something for the estate after so long.
The very next day, Erasmus was out of his high fort, beaten into a pulp by Arzan.
The attack was swift and decisive. City guards, bolstered by Arzan’s newly acquired Enforcers, descended upon the Tradeheart Merchant company building.
Not one person in the Tradeheart office was able to stand against them and before they knew it, they were arresting Erasmus and all the employees who had been a part of his illegal activities.
News of the raid spread like wildfire in a couple of hours.
Francis felt a surge of vindication.
It hadn’t been easy, but they did it. He had done it. With the debt finally disappearing from the looming state, he could finally focus on what he did best— rebuilding the territory, one sound decision at a time.
Opening his eyes away from the memories, he took a puff of cigar, smiling and finally felt like he had things to look forward to.
With renewed vigour, he got back to his work, the dull ache in his back disappearing.