The rhythmic clanging of hammers against steel echoed through the hall of the steelmill, an industrial symphony that usually brought comfort to Eisenar, one of the Velvet Syndicate's high-ranking merchants. But today, it grated against his frayed nerves. He stood in his office, a luxurious room perched above the main production floor, with an expansive view of the mill below. Stacks of ledgers, correspondence, and half-finished contracts cluttered his desk. Outside, the river that powered the mill churned sluggishly, its muddy waters reflecting the gray skies.

Eisenar had spent years building up his strength, a large business operation that mined rare minerals from the Breccian Divide and refined them into high-grade metals in this very mill. His wealth had been growing, his reputation rising. But now, it was all crumbling.

A ledger lay open on his desk, its pages marked with the harsh reality of his situation: a third of his wealth, gone. Vanished into the hands of raiders when the dungeon fell. His coffers had been filled proper, but the Unholy Alliance's failure to manage its safety, exposed it as just another vulnerable treasure trove. it had been long since dungeons had been raided in the Darklands, let alone successfully, and such a great treasury as well, the news caused great panic across the wealthy people in the lands.

The door to his office burst open, and his head foreman, Orval, stormed in, his face a mask of fury. “They’ve fought with the guards and walked out. Again.”

Eisenar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who this time?”

“The smelters,” Orval said. “They’re demanding their back pay, same as the boatmen. And when I told them we’re close to sorting things out—”

“They didn’t believe you.”

“They laughed in my face.” Orval slammed a fist against the wall. “They’ve got it in their heads that you’re broke. What's more rumors are flying around the men—about the Syndicate cutting ties, about an internal power struggle in the alliance. People are scared, Eisenar.”

“I’m not broke,” Eisenar said, though the words rang hollow. His gaze drifted to the mountain of correspondence on his desk. Letters of termination from once-loyal customers piled high, their polite tones barely masking the timing behind their actions. They had canceled contracts, citing vague concerns about “instability,” leaving him with warehouses overflowing with unsold stock.

“You’re stuck with product you can’t sell and workers you can’t pay,” Orval said bluntly.

Eisenar fist clenched. “This is temporary. Once we stabilize, once I find new buyers—”

Orval cut him off. “And who’s going to buy? The markets are in chaos. Traders are pulling out of Svartik left and right. Even the Syndicate can’t hold the harbor together. Your name means nothing if you can’t pay people what they’re owed.”

Before Eisenar could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. His secretary, a wiry young man named Devin, peeked in. “Sir, the meeting room is ready. The clients are waiting.”

Eisenar straightened his coat, forcing a calm demeanor. “Fine. Let’s see what they have to say.”

------

Eisenar entered the modest meeting room, its long table surrounded by a handful of his remaining clients. Their expressions ranged from frustration to outright contempt.

One of them, a burly man named Völund, leaned forward. “We’ve been patient, Eisenar, but patience doesn’t fill our coffers. You’ve missed two shipments now. We’ve got workers of our own to pay.”

“I’m aware of the delays, the boatmen wanted to 'reevaluate' their contract,” Eisenar said, taking his seat. “You’ve all seen the reports. The collapse of a dungeon sent shockwaves through the economy. It’s not just me; everyone’s feeling it.”

Völund snorted. “Everyone? Maybe. But not everyone’s stupid enough to keep their coinage in one vault.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the room.

Eisenar tone sharpened. “These contracts bind you to me. If you breach them, I’ll take legal action.”

Another client, a wiry woman with sharp features, smirked. “You’re welcome to try, the syndicate has its hands full Eisenar. And who would you go after? All of us? Everyone in Svartik is reneging on their deals right now. No court will take your case—because there won’t be a court left to hear it at this rate.”

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The room fell silent, the truth of her words hanging heavy in the air.

Eisenar leaned back, he did not know what he himself could rely on anymore. The Syndicate was faltering, his reputation was in tatters, and now his workers were rebelling. Worse, there were whispers of forces moving in the shadows—toppling the old order one pawn at a time.

--

The meeting room trembled as a distant boom echoed through the mill. The sound wasn’t industrial—it was an explosion. Eisenar’s heart sank as dust drifted from the ceiling, and the clanging of hammers below abruptly ceased.

“What in the blazes was that?” Völund barked, half-rising from his seat.

Before anyone could answer, the far wall of the meeting room erupted in a cacophony of shattered stone and splintering wood. The force knocked over chairs and sent Eisenar sprawling. When the dust settled, a figure stepped through unlike anything Eisenar had seen—a tall, sinewy being with the grace of a predator. The intruder’s feline features were sharp and angular, his sleek dark orange fur patterned with black splotches. Dual hook blades gleamed in his clawed hands, as if wanting to bite down into anyone.

Skǫrner.

He moved fluidly, his tail swaying behind him as he scanned the room with piercing yellow eyes. Behind him, a squad of shadowy figures—Fixers—filtered in, their movements silent and deadly.

The merchants scrambled back, their expressions a mix of shock and terror. Eisenar pulled himself to his feet, his mind racing.

“Good evening,” Skǫrner said, his voice cold but playful. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

“Who… who are you to barge in here?” Völund stammered, trying to muster defiance.

Skǫrner’s lips curled into a smile, baring razor-sharp fangs. “I am your new partner, of course! Or maybe I’m not? We will have to see.”

“This is Syndicate territory!” Völund spat, though his bravado wavered. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

In one seamless motion, Skǫrner flicked his hook blades upward, catching the chandelier above the table. He pulled, sending the fixture crashing down in a rain of glass and metal. The merchants flinched, the message clear: Skǫrner didn’t fear the Syndicate.

Eisenar forced himself to speak, his voice trembling. “What… what do you want?”

Skǫrner’s gaze locked onto him, pinning him in place. “Everything. The Syndicate’s rule is over. A new Dark Host is rising, and it will take everything, stripping away the parasites choking the Darklands’ strength.”

He leapt onto the table with feline grace, landing silently despite the heavy boots he wore. The hook blades twirled in his hands as he began to pace, his tail flicking lazily.

“Let’s make this quick,” Skǫrner said, his voice calm but commanding. “Who here buys end products? Like a collector or a market house?”

The merchants exchanged panicked glances.

“No volunteers?” Skǫrner tilted his head mockingly. “Fine.” He pointed one blade at a trembling man near the end of the table. “You. What do you do?”

“I-I buy processed metals,” the man stammered. “For crafting luxury goods—”

The blade flashed. The merchant crumpled, blood pooling beneath him. Skǫrner barely spared him a glance as his Fixers removed the body.

“Next,” he said, his tone unchanged. “Who profits from trading without producing? Middlemen, brokers, speculators?”

A wiry woman hesitated, then spoke. “Listen, I provide a vital service—coordinating shipments, ensuring—”

Skǫrner cut her off with a swipe of his blade. She fell, her protests silenced.

The remaining merchants were visibly shaking.

Skǫrner crouched, his yellow eyes narrowing. “This is not cruelty. This is pruning. Only those who create—who contribute—are of true value. The rest, the Dark Host can handle itself. So, I’ll ask one last time. Who here runs production?”

Eisenar, heart pounding, forced himself to stand. “I do. This mill, the mines, and the supply chain—it’s all mine.”

The assassin studied him for a moment, then leapt down from the table, landing inches away. Skǫrner’s blade hovered near Eisenar’s throat, the spiked edge gleaming.

“You work for the Dark Host now, is there anyone in this room you consider a vital asset?,” Skǫrner said, the spike scraping upwards to Eisenar's chin.

Eisenar spoke out of fear without thought. "Völund controls most craftsmen in this region" pointing at the Dwarven Smith.

Skǫrner stepping back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Turning to his Fixers, he waved a simple gesture as he walked out. “Clear the rest out. We have no use for them.”

The Fixers moved with lethal efficiency, silencing the remaining merchants. Eisenar watched, his hands trembling, as the room descended into blood and chaos.

When it was over, Skǫrner turned back to him, his expression unreadable. “Congratulations, Eisenar. Your mill is now a war asset. Your workers, your stockpiles, your expertise—they belong to the Dark Host. You will serve, or you will die and be replaced. The choice is yours.”

Eisenar swallowed hard. “I… I’ll serve the Dark Host. What is it you need, uh, Lord?”

“Haha, good man,” Skǫrner said with a toothy smile. “You’ll start by expanding production for weapons, armor, siege tools. These dead merchants here will have their assets, craftsmen included, confiscated and sent to you over time.”

He gestured to his Fixers. “Secure the mill, pay the workers their wages, and then remind them that rebellion is no longer an option under the Dark Host.”

As Skǫrner strode away, his tail swishing, Eisenar sank into his chair, his mind racing. He had survived—but had he really? He was now part of some war host, with nothing left in his own hands. No coinage anywhere, workers paid on the wage of the host and no clients left but the host. He had become an indentured manager, as had Völund.