The council chamber was quieter than usual. Not tense—just thoughtful.
Scrolls and ledgers cluttered the table, many opened to pages dense with symbols, tallies, and stamped receipts. Charts hung from the walls, drawn in charcoal and red ink, displaying outputs from various sectors, population growth, and a single column marked Revenue—a column that remained uncomfortably short.
Alexander stood at the far end of the chamber, watching the hearth. The fire danced gently, its light playing across the banners of the Dominion, flickering like the fragile future they were now tasked with securing—not through force, but through policy.
Lord Harland Voss stood near the center of the table, thumbing through a ledger as he spoke. "As of this month, nearly ninety percent of the Dominion's income comes from government-controlled workshops—primarily those tied to Tenebrium tool production. These goods are sold directly to traders, giving us fast coin—but it's not sustainable."
Gareth grunted from his seat. "We're bottlenecked. Too many craftsmen waiting for orders that come from us. Good men with idle hands and half the initiative beaten out of them."
"And we're wasting talent," Voss agreed. "The state shouldn't be running every forge in the city."
Silas nodded. "Except the Tenebrium operations, which remain under government control. Everything else should be privatized. We can't innovate while we're approving every hinge and shovel by hand."
Alexander turned from the fire. "Then we transition. We auction off the rights to most of the workshops and stalls—five-year leases, issued under review. Let craftsmen produce what they wish. Let the economy breathe."
"But how does the Dominion earn coin?" Elias asked from the corner, his voice practical, sharp. "If we stop selling tools directly, we stop controlling the income."
"We replace it," Voss said smoothly, turning to a second scroll and unrolling it across the table. "We formalize our tax system. One that works for our size, encourages growth, and still allows us to invest in the people."
He gestured to the map of Emberhold, where workshops were now marked in charcoal.
"These facilities will be leased or sold—but only to Maximillians. Citizens. Settlers of this Dominion. No foreigners, no outland speculators. If we let outside coin control our production now, we lose not only wealth—but direction."
Silas nodded. "Keeps the power local. Keeps our economy sovereign."
"Exactly," Voss said. "And to ensure these citizens can actually compete, we offer state-backed lending. Low-interest loans to craftsmen, artisans, and producers who want to start or expand their work. No guild middlemen. No collateral beyond a production pledge."
Gareth raised an eyebrow. "We're… handing out coin?"
"We're investing it," Alexander said, stepping forward. "Every forge that runs, every wheel that turns, pays us back in value. The coin returns—not just in fees, but in output, trade, and loyalty."
"And more importantly," Voss added, "we build trust. People see a government that doesn't just take—it lifts. That's the difference."
Elias narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," Voss replied. "But we choose carefully. We track repayments. And we use this—this lending system—as the foundation of something greater."
Silas looked up. "A bank?"
"A central one," Voss confirmed. "We begin by funding industry. But one day, it holds our reserves, regulates credit, underwrites expansions. A bank not beholden to nobles or foreign crowns—but to the Dominion."
Alexander nodded. "This is how we build independence—not by rejecting coin, but by learning to shape it."
Silas stepped forward and unrolled a fresh parchment, its surface inked with a grid of proposals.
"Three revenue streams," he said. "All light, all scalable."
He pointed to the first.
"Commercial licensing. Every private workshop, smithy, brewery, or carpentry stall will register with the city. They pay an annual license fee—a flat rate scaled by location and size. It gives legitimacy, protection, and a traceable structure."
He moved to the second.
"Land-use tithe. Settlers who farm or build outside Emberhold's inner walls will pay a small seasonal fee for the land they occupy. It's not a land tax—it's a usage fee. Public land leased for personal gain."
"And lastly," Silas said, tapping the third row, "a craftsman's levy. This only applies to large-scale producers. Blacksmiths, builders, wheelwrights who exceed a fixed production volume will contribute a modest fee per unit after they pass a certain threshold."
Owen scratched his chin. "So the man making two doors a week pays nothing. The one shipping twenty pays his share."
"Exactly," Silas replied. "It rewards growth, not hoarding. And no merchant tariffs. We keep trade free and fast."
Voss folded his arms. "That's what makes it work. By refusing to tax trade, we invite more of it. More trade brings more settlers. More settlers need homes, tools, goods. The private sector grows—and with it, our revenue."
Gareth still looked skeptical. "And who keeps track of it all?"
"Inspectors," Voss said. "We're training a small corps now—many are former registry scribes. We'll begin with Emberhold proper, then extend to the outer districts."
"And enforcement?" Elias asked.
The room fell still.
"We'll need more than scribes to uphold law," Silas murmured. "We'll need precedent. Rules. Judges."
"And law," Voss added, "needs a foundation."
Alexander stepped to the center of the table, gazing down at the charts—his expression unreadable.
"No tax survives without law," he said. "And law cannot exist without order."
Silas met his gaze. "Then we're talking about a code."
"No," Alexander said quietly. "We're talking about a constitution."
The words settled over the room like falling ash.
Not a rule. Not a tax.
A future.