The next morning, Vaylen stood in the grand hall of the merchant guild, stiff-backed and tight-jawed as he handed over his formal complaint. The clerk—pale, pinched, and unimpressed—glanced at it briefly before setting it aside with a stack of others.

  “Thank you, Master Vaylen,” the clerk said dully. “We will process it in due course.”

  “In due course?” Vaylen’s voice snapped sharp. “My apprentices are rotting in a cell. Your merchant framed them—and you have the gall to say in due course?”

  The clerk barely blinked. “We take all accusations seriously, Master Vaylen. Yours is not the first complaint against Orlen. Unfortunately, none have been… actionable.”

  Vaylen’s eyes narrowed. “So nothing changes.”

  The clerk gave a polite, empty smile. “The guild appreciates your patience.”

  Vaylen stalked out, his fists clenched. The sun was already high, beating down as if mocking him. His mind raced—he was running out of time, and the guild was dragging its feet, again.

  When he returned to his shop, Brinna was already waiting at the counter, leaning on her cane.

  “Well?” she asked without preamble.

  Vaylen slammed his ledgers down. “Nothing. They’re stalling—same as always.”

  Brinna exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the cane. “I figured as much.” Her eyes sharpened. “But there’s one more angle. One man who might have enough pull to light a fire under them.”

  Vaylen’s brow lifted, skeptical. “Who?”

  “Lord Henrick Grellin.” Brinna tapped her cane twice, each knock deliberate. “He’s a noble—and, more importantly, he sits on the guild’s advisory board. Knows their books inside out. Hates the corruption but’s too clean-handed to get his own dirty. Write to him. Ask for a favor.”

  Vaylen scowled. “A favor from a noble? For two peasant kids?”

  Brinna’s eyes gleamed. “Just trust me.”

  Vaylen hesitated, then grabbed his quill. “Fine. But this better work. And you old busybody where are you getting your information?”

  Brinna huffed and adjusted her girdle. “You don’t kiss and tell Vaylen. Unless you’d like a kiss.” and she puckered up dramatically. Vaylen shuddered.

  “No. I’d rather kiss a male Boarox bottom on a bad day.” Vaylen leaned away from her.

  “Then get writing. I have to go out and run through the town a bit. I’ll see you when you have our children.” Brinna sauntered out the shop.

  “Wait- Our children?! Don’t say such drivel woman!” Vaylen rolled his eyes. “As if I would bed an old sow like you… but I will get them back one way or another.”

  ???????

  Lord Henrick Grellin, head buried in scrolls, was halfway through his midday wine when the courier arrived, breathless and pale. Grellin took the letter lazily at first—likely another petty grievance from the merchant class—but as his eyes swept the page, his brow furrowed.

  He read the names again, slower this time.

  “Ilyari and Tazien Aierenbane… Academy inductees.”

  His fingers tightened around the parchment. Top of their class—he’d seen their entrance evaluations himself last week. Lowborn, yes, but brilliant. And now… imprisoned?

  He cursed under his breath and shoved his chair back, grabbing his cloak in sharp, angry movements.

  ???????

  The guild hall was quieter than usual, but tension clung to the air like smoke. Grellin’s boots echoed sharply as he strode through the marble foyer, eyes locked on the front desk.

  The head clerk looked up, eyes going wide. “L-Lord Grellin—”

  “I want the Orlen file,” Grellin barked, planting his cane with a heavy thunk.

  The clerk froze, stammering, “My lord, that… that’s rather sensitive—”

  “Now.” His voice cut like a blade.

  The clerk scrambled away, returning moments later with a thick bundle of papers, hands shaking as he set it down. Grellin yanked it open, flipping through with sharp eyes. His frown deepened with every page.

  “Seven complaints in two years,” he muttered. “Overcharging… false reporting… accusations of lost property…”

  The clerk cleared his throat nervously. “Well, my lord, you see, Orlen is… a valued merchant. Very well connected.”

  “Connected enough that the guild keeps burying this filth?” Grellin snapped, slapping the papers down. “One case might be bad luck. Two—carelessness. But seven? And now we have two Academy-bound apprentices locked up because of his games?”

  The clerk swallowed. “They’re only commoners, sir. And Orlen has always… well, he’s provided significant donations.”

  Grellin’s eyes burned cold. “Donations or blatant corruption in the form of bribes. Should I start asking who is taking these bribes? Would I see your name on the list? Once? Thrice? Do as I say.”

  The clerk tried again, voice oily. “The thing is, my lord, these things get messy. The last time someone pushed too hard on Orlen, the evidence—ah—disappeared. The witnesses withdrew. One even… relocated unexpectedly.”

  “Relocated?” Grellin’s lip curled. “Or was relocated?”

  The clerk said nothing.

  Grellin slammed his cane against the floor, making the man jump. “You think this won’t taint the Academy’s reputation? Two of the highest-scoring applicants—framed and jailed—and you want me to look the other way?”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The clerk winced. “Sir, the guild board must convene to—”

  “I am the guild board!” Grellin roared, slamming his hand on the desk. “You will file the official report—today.”

  The clerk’s face drained of color. “But, my lord, if we move too fast, Orlen’s backers—”

  “Let them squirm.” Grellin leaned in, voice low and deadly. “And listen carefully: if this isn’t handled by sundown, I will order a full audit of every ledger in this building. I will rip through every account, every shipment, and every coin until the Emperor himself smells the stench.”

  The clerk’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Y-yes, my lord. At once.”

  Grellin’s eyes gleamed dangerously. He raised his hand, mana sparking faintly across his palm, and swept it across the ledgers on the shelf. The books shimmered briefly—then settled, a faint glow sinking into the spines.

  “And one more thing,” Grellin said smoothly, eyes like knives. “If a single page of these records is moved, touched, or conveniently lost… I’ll know. And the tax office will know. And I will make sure every last man in this hall answers for it.”

  The clerk blanched, bowing frantically. “Of course, my lord. It will be done.”

  Grellin turned crisply, his cloak snapping behind him as he strode out, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

  “Idiots,” he muttered darkly. “Cover for filth like Orlen… but let them dare embarrass the Academy while I am the main charge? I don’t think so.”

  ???????

  Vaylen was hunched over the cutting table, lanterns glowing low, when the sharp rap-rap-rap of a cane sounded at the door.

  He frowned. “We’re closed—”

  The door swung open anyway, and Lord Henrick Grellin stepped inside, eyes sharp and cloak still dusted with road grit.

  Vaylen’s stomach dropped. “My lord…” He wiped his hands quickly on his apron. “Apologies, I wasn’t expecting—”

  “I’ll be blunt, Vaylen.” Grellin’s gaze raked the cluttered shop. “How long have you been fighting with the guild?”

  Vaylen stiffened, then sighed, motioning toward a pair of chairs by the workbench. “Too long.”

  Grellin didn’t sit. “Talk. Everything. Now.”

  Vaylen stiffened, then sighed, motioning toward a pair of chairs by the workbench. “Too long.”

  Grellin didn’t sit. His eyes gleamed sharp. “Talk. Everything. Now.”

  Vaylen hesitated, wiping his palms on his apron, then crossed to a battered ledger on the shelf. He pulled it down with a grim tug and slammed it onto the workbench, flipping it open with a grimace.

  “I’ve had trouble for over a year,” he began, voice low but tight. “First, small things. Orders showing up light—one or two bolts of fabric missing from a shipment. Then full crates started disappearing. Clients called, demanding work that I know we completed—only for me to find out the guild never sent it.”

  He jabbed a finger at a line of scribbled notes. “And payments? Half of mine just... vanished. I paid my dues twice last winter—twice—and still got slapped with late penalties. I had receipts. Stamped. Didn’t matter.”

  Grellin’s eyes narrowed. “You filed formal complaints?”

  “Every single time,” Vaylen snapped. “And what did I get? A polite letter from the guild saying there was ‘no evidence of wrongdoing.’ Or the classic: ‘clerical error, we regret the inconvenience.’” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Inconvenience. They nearly bled me dry.”

  Grellin folded his arms, brow dark. “You’re saying they were targeting you.”

  Vaylen met his gaze, eyes flinty. “I’m saying they wanted me gone. My shop sits on prime market real estate. I have no powerful family name. Easy target, right? If I defaulted, my stall would’ve gone to one of their little friends in a heartbeat.”

  Grellin’s jaw ticked. “Did you have any proof?”

  “Not solid. Just patterns—missing shipments, misplaced payments, sudden inspections. And every time I got close to digging up something solid, the records shifted. Pages missing. Ledgers 'misfiled.'” He dragged a hand through his hair, tired. “They were pushing me to the brink. If I’d missed one more major order…”

  His eyes flicked toward the back room, voice softening just slightly. “Then the kids showed up. Ilyari and Tazien. Sharp as razors. In two months we cleared every backlogged order, caught up and landed commissions I never dreamed of.”

  Grellin’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Such as?”

  Vaylen’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Lord and Lady Talvern’s daughter’s name-day gown.”

  Grellin stilled. “That was them?”

  Vaylen nodded slowly, pride slipping through his weariness. “Ilyari designed it. Every cut, every stitch. I supervised the finish work, but that dress? Hers.”

  Grellin stepped back, eyes narrowing in thought. “My wife still talks about that gown. Said it was the finest work she’s seen in years. On top of Belliora actually staying clean the entire time. Something about being a princess collecting love all day. I’ve never seen Lady Grellin’s niece so happy to buy a dress for her daughter.” He gave a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. “I thought you’d hired a new master tailor.”

  Vaylen shook his head. “Nope. Just a girl with better eyes and steadier hands than half the guild put together.”

  Grellin’s expression darkened as pieces started to click into place. “And now they’re suddenly caught in some bogus theft scandal—days before the most prestigious Academy ceremony of the year.”

  Vaylen’s face hardened. “Exactly. She’s gifted,” Vaylen said quietly. “They both are.”

  Grellin was silent for a moment, pacing to the window. Outside, night had fallen fully, the sky bruised and heavy.

  “This guild,” Grellin muttered, turning back sharply, “has played fast and loose too long. And now they’ve endangered Academy-bound apprentices—the top scorers, no less. If word of this spreads before they’re cleared…This is my fault. I have been lax in overseeing things. I thought if I heard nothing that everything was doing okay, but then I did notice things were never going wrong. Never asking for help or advice. Like they didn’t want me there. And as the guarantor and president of that board that is my responsibility and I have failed you and other citizens. For this you have my apology.”

  His voice trailed off, teeth clenching.

  Just then, the door banged open, and a messenger stumbled inside, breathless, waving a scroll high.

  “Formal complaint—filed and sealed, my lord!” he panted. “Just in from the guild hall!”

  Grellin snatched it, eyes scanning fast. His jaw unclenched—slightly. “Good. At last.”

  He glanced at Vaylen. “They’ll be released now.”

  The messenger shifted nervously. “Ah… not tonight, my lord. The jailhouse is closed after dark. Standard procedure.”

  Vaylen stepped forward, panic flaring. “What? But the ceremony—”

  “They’ll be out at dawn,” the Grellin added quickly. “Before the ceremony starts.”

  Grellin’s eyes blazed, fists tightening around the scroll. For a moment, Vaylen thought he’d hurl it straight through the window.

  Instead, the nobleman exhaled slowly, voice deadly low. “I will go and get them myself. But if there’s any delay—if those children miss a single step of that ceremony—I will shut this guild down myself and it won’t have a single silver to stand on.”

  He pointed a sharp finger at the messenger. “Make that clear.”

  The messenger bowed low, then fled without another word.

  Silence stretched between Vaylen and Grellin, the weight of the night pressing in.

  “They’ll be there,” Grellin said at last, his voice iron. “No matter what it takes.”

  Vaylen quickly questioned placing his hand on the ledger. “What of Orlen?”

  “He will have his day,” Grellin said at last, his voice iron. “And once I’m done, it will be his last. Say nothing, do nothing. I need him to stay in town.”

  And with a swirl of his cloak, he turned and disappeared into the darkness—leaving Vaylen alone with nothing but the ticking of the clock and the sick churn of waiting.