The Emberflask Inn buzzed with more life than usual, its heavy wooden doors creaking as they swung open and shut, admitting a steady stream of weary travelers and boisterous locals. Thick smoke curled from the wide hearth, its flames licking at a spit of roasted roots that glistened with fat, their earthy scent mingling with the sharp tang of cheap cider poured from dented pitchers. The inn's low ceiling sagged under dark wooden beams, groaning faintly beneath the weight of raucous conversation, while boots scraped across the worn oak floors, their planks stained with years of spilled ale and tracked soot. In the far corner, a drunk carpenter slurred through a crude rendition of the Dominion's anthem, his gravelly voice tangling with the twang of a traveling bard's lute, the notes clashing in a chaotic, drunken harmony.
But near the back of the main hall—beneath a mounted iron pickaxe, its edge dulled by time, and a faded phoenix banner fraying at the hems—sat three men untouched by the revelry. Their mugs steamed on the rough-hewn table, tendrils of heat rising from untouched ale, the surface pocked with old knife marks and ringed with water stains. Their voices stayed low, cautious, barely audible over the din, their words weaving a thread of tension amid the clamor.
"I still think it's madness," said the first, running a thick, calloused thumb along the rim of his tankard, the metal cool against his soot-blackened skin. "Selling workshops to anyone with a seal and enough coin? That's not order—it's gambling with a nation."
Barun Keel was a workshop master, broad-shouldered and scarred from years at the forge, his arms knotted like timber, his voice a deep grind of gravel that carried the weight of South Quarter's earliest days. No noble blood ran through him, yet he sat with the bearing of a man who'd outlasted kings, his leather apron creased and singed, hanging loose over a frame built by fire and iron.
Across from him sat Calder Venn, lean and sharp-eyed, his merchant's traveling coat—still dusted with road ash—clinging to his wiry frame, the hem brushing the floor as he shifted. "You say madness, I say opportunity," he said, flashing a grin that bared teeth yellowed by travel. "In the Kingdom, I paid five tariffs to move iron gate-to-gate. Here? I walk in, pay no toll, set up shop next to the forge I buy from. No middlemen, no guilds. That's not chaos—that's freedom."
"And undercutting," Barun growled, his thick fingers tightening around the mug.
Between them sat the third man, quiet until now, stirring his drink with a wooden spoon, the faint clink of it against the tankard lost in the inn's roar. His green cloak draped over his shoulders, simple but well-stitched, and a brass badge gleamed just below the collar—three stacked ledgers beneath the phoenix seal, marking him as a man of Emberhold's registry office. Tomas Harlowe watched the two with patient amusement, his hazel eyes glinting faintly in the hearthlight.
"I wouldn't call it freedom just yet," Tomas said calmly, his voice smooth as polished stone. "You both have to register now—workshop licenses, trade badges, production logs. You're not hiding in the wilderness anymore. You're citizens."
Barun grunted, his breath fogging briefly in the cool air near the wall. "I was here when the city was ash and timber. Didn't need a license to hammer nails then."
"No," Tomas said, his spoon pausing mid-stir. "But back then, you were your own fire-watch, surgeon, tax collector. Want to go back?"
Barun didn't answer, his jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the swirling ale.
Calder leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the table, a rapid tap-tap like rain on a tin roof. "I don't mind registration. Not even the fees. But these loans—low interest, no collateral? Smells too generous. What's the catch?"
Tomas shrugged, his cloak rustling faintly. "No catch. Not yet. You apply, get reviewed. If approved, the coin's yours—two percent return annually, no repayment for six months."
Calder blinked, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Two percent?"
"It's not charity," Tomas clarified, taking a slow sip, the ale's bitterness lingering on his lips. "It's policy. The Dominion invests in you because industry must grow faster than the treasury can fund."
"And where's the money from?" Barun asked, his voice low, suspicious. "We barely had coin for road stone last year."
Tomas set his mug down, the thud soft against the wood. "The black metal. The state controls Tenebrium—exports tools, refined alloys to western traders. That coin fills the central fund—part now feeds the artisan loan system."
"So we're working off war profits," Barun muttered, his knuckles whitening around the tankard.
"Off survival," Tomas corrected, his tone firm but even. "Not ideal, but it works. Seventy-two loans approved. Eighteen new forges opened. Over forty shops and small businesses licensed in two months."
Calder raised a brow, his grin returning. "All in Emberhold?"
"For now," Tomas said, his gaze steady. "No fertile land left to sell or lease, so expansion's city-bound—construction, blacksmithing, cloth-making, carpentry, services. It's not farming growing—it's industry."
"And thirty-seven new competitors," Barun said darkly, the firelight casting deep shadows across his furrowed brow.
"Welcome to privatization," Calder said with a smile, his teeth glinting.
Barun shot him a glare, the air between them crackling. "You laugh now. Wait till someone undercuts your grain by half."
"I'll adapt," Calder said with a shrug, his coat shifting with the motion. "That's what you do when a nation grows—move faster, get smarter, specialize."
Tomas leaned forward, voice dropping, barely audible over the carpenter's slurred chorus in the back. "That's the idea. The Dominion isn't a Kingdom—it's not trying to be. It's different. The Lord's plan keeps government small where it can, big where it must."
Barun frowned, his mug halfway to his lips. "Big where?"
"Tenebrium. Roads. Defense. Lending."
Calder raised a brow, his fingers stilling. "So, what—you privatize the rest?"
"Most of it," Tomas said, his badge catching the light. "Workshops. Services. Market stalls. Once stable, even small waterworks and mills go independent, regulated by guild charters."
"That's what worries me," Barun said, setting his mug down with a heavy clunk. "Regulated how? By who? Your inspectors? Scribes with no soot under their nails?"
Tomas didn't flinch, his calm unshaken. "For now, us. Later, the law."
"You mean this constitution they're whispering about?" Calder asked, his tone sharpening, eyes glinting with curiosity. "That real?"
Tomas glanced at him, lips parting briefly, then closed without a word.
Barun raised his tankard and took a long, slow drink, the ale sloshing faintly, his throat working as he swallowed. "Tax my land, license my anvil, lend my apprentice coin from the public purse—but if they're writing rules about my work, who I hire, how much iron I bend… I want to see the hand behind the quill."
Calder chuckled, a low, dry sound. "Careful, old man. You're starting to sound like a citizen."
"And you," Barun grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "are starting to sound like a politician."
The three shared a tense pause, the inn's clamor swelling around them—laughter, clinking mugs, the bard's lute striking a sour note. Then Calder raised his mug in mock salute, the steam curling upward like a wisp of smoke.
"To new nations."
Tomas clinked his against it, the sound sharp and clear. "To better ones."
Barun hesitated, his mug hovering, eyes dark under the pickaxe's shadow. Then, with a sigh that rumbled deep in his chest, he knocked his tankard against theirs, ale sloshing over the rim.
"To ones that don't forget the hands that built them."