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Shadows of the Silver Flower
II. The Wayward Son

II. The Wayward Son

Olgard sprawled along the shores of its namesake bay, a city blessed by fortune. Its temperate climate and navigable river had made it a natural hub of commerce, with wealth flowing through its gates as steadily as the tides. The city grew fat on tariffs collected from the web of trade routes that converged at its docks, both from seafaring vessels and river barges laden with inland bounty.

A line of hereditary counts ruled from their hilltop palace, their authority woven from centuries of dynastic marriages, vassal contracts, and carefully cultivated alliances. Though blood had been spilled over inheritance disputes in generations past—family turning against family in brief but bitter struggles—those days were long gone. Now, not even Olgard's eldest citizens could recall enemy armies beneath its walls or trampling its renowned orchards. This rare peace had allowed generation after generation of artisans, traders, and farmers to build their fortunes, each contributing another layer to the city's prosperity.

As Olgard flourished, it burst free of its old town walls. The overflow created the bustling Outer City, a maze of streets and crowded neighborhoods where ambition rubbed shoulders with necessity. Beyond these newer districts stretched endless farmlands and grand estates, fading into the horizon like a painted backdrop.

On the city's outskirts stood The Last League, an inn where merchants gathered before entering Olgard proper. Its common room buzzed with traders hunched over tables, calculating tomorrow's tariffs and debating which city guards might be amenable to discretion. But in a private chamber above, a different sort of calculation was taking place.

Edmer sat alone, his rough appearance at odds with the fine wine he sipped. With scholarly reverence, he turned another page of the decaying manuscript before him, absorbing its knowledge like a sponge. This was the final piece of his puzzle. Setting aside his empty glass, he began updating a sprawling family tree diagram.

His pen traced a line from himself—the last of a wealthy smith guild lineage—through his late father Aemin, and back through generations. With each correction and annotation, a story emerged. The life of a guild member could provide comfort, even wealth to pass on to one's sons, but Edmer found it suffocating. It was a life bounded by invisible walls; no matter how wealthy a merchant became, aristocracy would always look down upon them. Edmer had drops of noble blood where impoverished aristocracy had met upstart merchantry, but not enough to break free of his social stratum.

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So Edmer did what he always did—he gambled. His late father would have been horrified to know that his son had sold all the inherited smithies, converting his birthright into a hefty sum of gold. He'd spent a year gathering every scrap of information about his heritage, collecting facts where he could and drawing conclusions where he couldn't. Now, finally, it was time to act.

Donning worn merchant garments, he joined the crowd hurrying to reach the city before the guards closed the gates for the night. The Trade Gates rose before them, twin whitewashed towers topped with the Ravenod dynasty's banner—a red ship on a white shield. Edmer kept his head low as he passed beneath them, but the guards were more interested in extracting "fees" from peasants with produce-laden carts.

Once inside the city proper, he wandered the cobbled streets in seemingly random patterns to shake any watching eyes. His first stop was a shop displaying silk dresses and fur-trimmed doublets that cost more than most burghers earned in a lifetime. When the shop guard moved to throw him out, Edmer's response was a purse heavy with silver landing on the counter.

"I have an order," he said quietly. "A discreet one."

The shopkeeper and guard exchanged wary glances. For a moment, Edmer considered bolting. Then, with a subtle price adjustment, greed won out, and from there, everything proceeded smoothly.

It was the first door of many that would open to the clink of coin that evening. He swept through the Upper City's finest shops making bulk purchases, placed bets in the Lower City's fighting pits, and loosened tongues in the Outer City's taverns. By nightfall, his inheritance was significantly lighter, but he was transformed. Fresh-shaved and elegantly attired in a hooded doublet, he cut a different figure entirely. A dueling sword hung at his belt—as fashion demanded—and hired bodyguards flanked him. Even more was agreed upon and waited for right moment.

All that remained now was an opportunity and a presentation.

Myrt couldn't make sense of what was happening on the streets lately. The regulars at The Bull and Baron had split into two camps: those in the loop and those out of it. She belonged to the latter, watching as the insiders grew increasingly tight-lipped while somehow having enough coin to drink through endless nights.

Even Varin, who usually got along better with the "rob-you-on-the-street" crowd, couldn't get them to talk. Now here he was, joining their revelry, his rich voice carrying a profane song across the tavern. He loved to sing—had a gift for it. Everyone knew how his mother had warned him against joining the Bard College, claiming it beneath a god-fearing honest worker.

When he finally returned, Myrt nearly leapt on him.

“What did you get from them?” she demanded, her voice edged with impatience.

“Still nothing.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Same old ‘you’ll see’ nonsense. But whatever’s happening, it’s big. Biggest job of our lives, and we’re not in on it.”