The morning sun painted Emberhold in muted gold, its rays slicing through the thick haze that rose from forge chimneys, curling like ghostly tendrils above the rooftops. Fine ash dusted every surface—stone walls, wooden shutters, the cobbled streets—glimmering faintly as it caught the light, a gritty veil stirred by the breeze. From the stone watchtowers, bells chimed, their deep, resonant tolls rolling across the city, signaling the inner gates' groan as they swung open. Traders spilled into the newly paved market square, their boots scuffing the smooth stone, sacks slung over shoulders, wagons creaking under early spring loads—barrels of grain, bundled hides, and crates that rattled with iron tools. The air carried the sharp tang of coal smoke mingled with the earthy scent of thawing soil, a promise of renewal amid the industrial hum.
Within the keep, the administrative wing—once a drafty barracks with cracked walls—now buzzed with quiet purpose, its transformation marked by the scent of fresh-cut timber and the faint musk of ink-soaked parchment. The Dominion's heartbeat had shifted, no longer a war drum's thunder but a subtler rhythm: the scratch of quills, the clink of coin stacks, the rustle of paper as clerks moved with deliberate haste. Polished wooden beams arched overhead, their grain gleaming under the soft glow of oil lamps hung in iron brackets, casting pools of light across the stone floor, worn smooth by years of boots.
Alexander stood beside Lord Harland Voss in one of the new strategy rooms, its air cool and tinged with the metallic bite of sealed crates. They overlooked a freshly carved wall map, its oak frame etched with faint runes, displaying the Dominion's growing territory in sweeping lines of charcoal and red thread. Below it, a polished stone table—cold to the touch, its surface veined with quartz—lay cluttered with parchment scrolls curling at the edges, sealed crates stamped with the phoenix mark, and a pair of open iron coin chests, their silver contents glinting faintly in the dim, slanting light from a narrow window.
"The currency is official as of today," Voss said, flipping a vellum sheet with practiced ease, its crisp edge whispering against his fingers. "Varenian silver marks, standard weight. We're integrating them into the registry and trade accounts. The Dominion's scrip will be discontinued—burned, most likely. It never held trust beyond Emberhold's walls anyway."
Alexander nodded, arms crossed over his broad chest, his steel-gray eyes tracing the documents' tight script. "It's a temporary solution."
"It has to be," Voss replied, his voice smooth as the velvet cloak draped over his shoulders. "We lack a mint, engravers, regulated alloys. Counterfeiting would spiral if we tried forging coinage ourselves."
Elias leaned against the wall near the doorway, its rough-hewn stone cool against his back, arms folded, jaw set beneath a shadow of stubble. "But using the Kingdom's currency puts us under their thumb. What happens when they devalue silver? Or choke supply to western merchants?"
Voss turned, unshaken, his silver rings catching the lamplight. "That's why we don't rely on supply—we seize flow. Traders already bring coin here. We set our values. A smith in Emberhold can sell a short sword for three marks while it fetches one in Westmere. Supply and demand, not loyalty, dictate worth."
Alexander stepped forward, his boots thudding softly on the floor. "And people will accept it if we stabilize the market. Prices must be clear—no guessing, no haggling in smoke-filled alleys. Publish rates—goods for marks, labor for coin. Let the Dominion run on logic, not tradition."
"And taxes?" Silas asked from across the room, his quill poised over a ledger, brows raised beneath a mop of dark hair, the faint scratch of his writing a steady undertone.
"Not yet," Voss said, his gaze steady. "We must prove the currency's value first. Let people earn with coin. Spend it. Trust it. Then—tariffs, land fees, guild dues. But not before the foundation holds."
Gareth muttered from a corner chair, its wood creaking under his bulk, arms crossed over his chest, his beard bristling. "I don't like it. Feels like shackling ourselves to the system we broke free from."
Alexander turned toward him, his shadow stretching across the table. "We're not shackled. We're infiltrating. One day, we'll mint our own coin—when we're ready. For now, we build value with tools, trade, trust. The silver mark is a bridge, not a collar."
Further inside, a wide desk of dark walnut bore an open ledger, its pages yellowed and filled with Voss's meticulous columns, ink glistening wetly in the lamplight. Silas stepped closer, his long fingers tracing a line of figures, the faint scent of parchment dust rising as he moved.
"So… show us the impact," he said, voice low against the room's hum.
Voss tapped the page, his ring clinking faintly. "Here. Before the precision calipers, average tool output per craftsman was five to eight units daily—hammers, hinges, brackets. Variance in measurements meant 30% loss from misfits or rework."
He flipped the page, the vellum rustling.
"With calipers in forges and shops—output's climbed to twelve units daily. Reject rate's down to five percent. That's near double efficiency, nearly triple value in raw coin."
Elias whistled, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Triple?"
Voss nodded, a gleam in his eye. "Standardized parts fetch higher prices. A hinge fitting every crate isn't just a hinge—it's time saved for merchants, caravans, warehouses. Builders now order modular brackets—measured to the millimeter—pre-drilled before delivery."
"We're exporting standards," Silas said, realization dawning, his quill trembling slightly.
Alexander's eyes met his, steady as stone. "Exactly." He didn't mention it, but the innovator path he'd honed—boosting blacksmith output alongside his war strategies—had fueled their victories, a quiet engine behind this shift.
Voss pressed on, his tone rising with fervor. "With a dozen calipers, we've stabilized three sectors. Blacksmiths share specs across districts. Workshops churn out batches. That means bulk orders—long-term contracts. Guilds will notice. Markets will follow."
Owen scratched his beard, the sound rough, glancing between parchment and Alexander. "All from a little measuring stick."
"Precision is power," Alexander said, his voice a low rumble. "Not as loud as steel. But it lasts longer."
Beyond the table, clerks shuffled through the halls, their arms laden with registry logs and rosters, footsteps muffled by the woven rugs now lining the corridors. The Dominion was being mapped—not just in land, but in identity. Citizens logged by name, age, trade, residency; ledger seals—brass tokens engraved with numbers and the phoenix mark, color-coded by craft—clinked in their hands.
"Eight thousand, six hundred fourteen citizens," Silas murmured, tracing the registry, his finger smudging faint ink. "Builders, smiths, merchants, farmers. Two hundred more pending—new arrivals."
"We know who we are now," Alexander said quietly, his breath fogging briefly in the cool air. "That's the difference between a camp and a city."
Tyrell slipped through the doorway then, a gust of cold air trailing him, his cloak dusted with ash. "Northern caravan arrived. Ten carts. Guild banners from Stonehaven. Word's spreading."
"And they'll see paved streets, posted guards, ledgers in every shop," Voss said with a smirk, his teeth glinting.
Alexander moved to the map wall, its wood warm under his touch, eyes scanning the frontier—roads in charcoal, borders in red thread, circles labeled "Expansion Sites" dotting the Expanse's rim.
"We've planted a flag," he said, voice steady as the stone beneath them. "Now we prove it means something."