Three excruciatingly long days went past, and with the deafening silence from Alaric's end, the merchants grew increasingly anxious. Each passing second was a harsh reminder of their unsustainable losses.
Desperation drove them to Ralf's doorstep, imploring—no, demanding—that he be the one to bow and scrape an apology to Alaric.
"Old man Ralf, it's the only way out of this mess. You must write this letter," pressured one merchant.
"Yeah, this whole damn mess started with your idea to ambush Alaric. What's it got to do with us?" another added fuel to the fire.
Sitting at the head of the long table, Ralf's face was set in stone, and he remained silent.
"Great, just great! Shall I reenact how all of you egged him on?" One of Ralf's loyal merchants began the counter-offensive.
"That was then, this is now! Ever since listening to you, we've had nothing but trouble," someone slammed the table and roared.
"Bloody hell!" A hot-headed merchant didn't even bother with pleasantries and started hurling insults, "If it weren't for you spineless lot, our strike plan wouldn't have tanked, would it?"
"And don't think I don't know!" said the hothead, wagging his finger accusingly at the other businessmen, "You, and you, you damn well and you—didn't you all write to Alaric? Didn't you bankroll him? Without your money, could his shop have opened in three days? You pack of...”
"Enough, Garry," Ralf finally spoke up, sounding like an unoiled hinge, "I'll write. Tell me, what do you want me to say?"
"Sir, you don't have to..." the fiery merchant spoke, sounding like a lion in defeat, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"It's okay, Garry. And you too, Ford. No use pleading. I've lost. The moment I planned that ambush without knowing the identity of that mystery expert, I was finished. Just tell me what to write." Ralf straightened up laboriously from his high-backed chair and retrieved paper, wax, and other materials needed for writing from a cabinet nearby.
The jubilant merchants who felt victorious began to strut around the dining table, treating it as though it were a dance floor.
Soon enough, a letter—overtly obsequious—was penned under the shaky hand of Ralf, the once-feared merchant. He dripped hot wax onto the envelope and placed his personal signet ring firmly into it.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
For decades, that same seal had spelled commercial—or even actual—death for his enemies and secured incalculable profits for his enterprise. Now, it marked his final curtain call, severing all ties to power and returning only as an old man's proof of identity.
The victors brandished the letter like a lifeline, sending it hurtling to Alaric’s residence with such urgency that the wax was still warm upon arrival.
For Alaric, a merchant of modest beginnings never on Ralf’s radar, this marked their first formal exchange.
Alaric couldn't wait to unfold the letter.
[To the fair and benevolent Chairman Alaric,
It's been some time.
I regret not congratu-lating you sooner on your appointment as Chairman of the Count's Guild. Forgive my elderly lack of person-al tribute; I hope you harbor no ill will.
(Three hundred words of flowery flattery omitted)
After more than a decade in the same trade, I failed to recognize your talents and fostered ill will instead. My attempt to ambush you and organize a strike were heinous acts; I've earned nothing less than my demise.
Failure to bring harm upon you followed by an ill-fated strike showcases my narrow mind, shameful even in my own reflection.
(Three hundred self-deprecating words omitted)
However, I must declare that hiring assassins and orchestrating the strike was solely my doing. The others were coerced under threat and seduction.
Therefore, I alone am ready to face the consequences of my sins. I humbly ask that you spare these innocent souls and extend your generosity to help them through their plight.
Below is the list of those ensnared...
(Three hundred words absolving others omitted)
I sincerely hope you live joyously in the days to come,
Your minuscule, respectful, and abject servant, Ralf.]
---
"...Your minuscule, respectful, and abject servant, Ralf." Alaric was in his parlor on Cloister Street, reciting Ralf’s letter of defeat with an uncontrollable grin.
"You seem rather pleased with yourself. Is this your dream come true?" Murphy teased.
"Absolutely," Alaric beamed. "When I first entered the business, everyone was shutting me out. I swore then, if I ever made it as a rich merchant, I’d use my wealth to squash them to bankruptcy. Hilarious, isn't it?"
Murphy stroked his chin, musing, "It's normal to feel that way. But now, it's time to think about your next move."
"But Mr. Murphy, these writings hardly reflect Ralf’s true sentiment. What should we do now?"
"Does his sincerity really matter?" Murphy leaned back into the plush chair. "What matters is, he wrote it—others didn't."
"I know what to do now." Alaric's smile widened. "Thank you, sir. I'll take care of it."
The next day, three sets of visitors knocked on the doors of Ralf, Garry (the hothead), and Ford (the anxious one), their carriages laden with ledgers and coin purses. They bought out each man’s portfolio of goods at cost—deeds and all—leaving the shops mere empty shells by day's end.
Ralf was taken aback, but he quickly gathered his composure. He knew Alaric could tell the letter wasn’t heartfelt, but he was given a graceful exit he hadn’t expected.
Ralf and his two staunch supporters watched their last joint venture stripped bare and said nothing. After a moment, Ford asked, "Sir, where do we go now?"
With their tarnished reputations, staying in City of Gath was inviting trouble. The trio had plans to move but were undecided on the new destination.
"Sir! You have a letter." A servant dashed between laborers, handing Ralf an unsealed, untitled letter.
Ralf unfolded the note, and the three glanced at the single word inscribed—White Wolf City.