Roan woke up with a groan. The now-familiar pain in his gut was present.
"Not this again," he muttered, steadying himself.
He looked around. This time, he was in a room with a window. Judging by the fading footsteps, Dove had just walked out.
In front of him stood two women—Shila, likely in her twenties, and another older woman. Forties? Maybe. She was probably the "boss" they kept talking about.
Fortunately, this time he wasn't tied up. He was seated at a table with some mouth-watering food laid out.
Do they really think food will make me let my guard down?
His stomach grumbled. Apparently, yes. His mind, however, said otherwise.
To her credit, the older woman waited until he collected himself before speaking.
"I heard about your... miracle."
"This is a common technique used by nobles," Roan said dismissively—and immediately regretted it.
"Must be a high-noble practice then," the woman replied, tilting her head slightly. "The nobles I know seem to use the same technique we use—or rather, no technique at all. I wonder why they don't share it with the common folk."
Her tone was curious—but the implication wasn't missed.
Roan forced a smile and stayed silent… until his stomach grumbled again.
Do nobles in that world actually hide this kind of technique? he asked Naor.
"No," Naor replied flatly.
Roan took a sip from the waterskin, buying time, then answered, "It's a recent discovery."
Thankfully, the woman didn't press further. "Can you give me another miracle?"
Well? Roan asked.
"Burning sulfur at the bottom of wine barrels will help preserve wine much longer," Naor replied dryly.
Why didn't you give me that before? Roan snapped.
"You didn't ask."
I did.
"You didn't say you needed an immediate solution." Naor sounded smug.
Fuck, Roan thought with dismay. Out loud, he asked, "Do you know sulfur?"
The woman paused, thinking. "I do. Slight demand among apothecaries and the alchemy sector."
Roan swallowed hard. She knew her stuff. This one won't be easy to fool.
"If you burn sulfur at the bottom of wine barrels and store wine inside, it can preserve the wine for months," he said with a forced smile.
"Oho! I'll need to test that. What else can sulfur do?" she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice.
Naor cut in again. "Burn it in food storage. Kills all insects. Just remember to let the smoke out before entering."
Roan relayed it: "If you burn sulfur in food storage, it kills bugs—helps with preservation. Just make sure to air out the smoke first."
"Hmm. Great techniques the nobles are hiding," she muttered. "Well, enough about preservation. You mentioned methods to help my guild avoid getting caught. Even a secret language. Why don't we start with that?"
Her eyes studied his face carefully.
Roan glanced nervously at the window, then looked back at her.
Without being prompted, Naor dumped another batch of dry, encyclopedic knowledge into his mind.
Roan sifted through it and asked, "How does your guild operate?"
The woman raised an eyebrow but answered, "I'm the leader. These two are my vice-leaders. I have thirty captains, each with thirty members."
That was fewer than Roan expected. He pressed, "They all know each other?"
Shila scoffed. "Obviously. How else would we coordinate?"
Roan clicked his tongue. "That's where you're going wrong. If one of your people gets captured, every known contact becomes a risk."
Shila looked ready to retort, but the boss raised a hand to silence her. "What do you propose instead?"
"You've got warehouses where you store your goods, right?"
The woman narrowed her eyes. "Yes, we do."
"Then there's no reason for everyone to know everyone. Sam ships to Tom, Tom ships to Cecil—but Sam doesn't need to know Cecil exists. Right?"
"That's true..." she muttered, frowning. "Why didn't we ever think of that? Still... it's too late for us."
"You could apply it to new recruits," Roan said with a shrug. "Put the old members in roles where getting caught isn't likely."
He took another sip of water and continued, "There are also techniques for sending hidden messages. Write instructions using lemon juice or milk—heat reveals the words. Or oak apple ink: soak it in sulfur water to reveal text. Once removed, the writing vanishes forever."
The woman hummed thoughtfully, her eyes calculating. After a moment, she asked, "Anything else?"
Roan didn't answer.
She cocked a brow. "Well?"
"I believe I've given more than enough," Roan said slowly, "without getting anything in return."
She gestured to the room. "You have your freedom."
Roan glanced back at the window. "Am I? Free, I mean."
The woman chuckled softly. "Trust me—you have more freedom than you think."
When he didn't respond, she added, "Besides, freedom isn't what you want."
Roan hesitated for a beat. Then admitted, "I want protection."
"Until the Lord returns," she finished the sentence he didn't dare say.
So they know they're doomed. Then why—?
She tapped her fingers on the table. Roan's eyes were drawn to her missing finger—just like him.
"I'll give you a better option," she said after a moment.
Roan couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with her. He shoved the feeling down and asked, "Which is?"
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Become my advisor." Shila looked visibly shocked. The boss ignored her and continued, "You'll have money. Protection. Respect. And more."
Roan thought it over.
"Whether it's a rat or a lion on a sinking ship... both drown. One just goes faster," he said.
She leaned back, amused. "Poetic, aren't we?"
Roan flushed slightly—then froze as she said, "What if I told you we're in bed with the owner of the port?"
Roan sucked in a breath. His mind raced.
He looked at her, stunned. "This whole gang war... the Lord planned it? To keep the guilds busy?"
She chuckled. "There's more to it than that, but you're right."
Roan narrowed his eyes. "Your people are dying. More will die. What do you get out of it?"
"What I want," she said simply—not even trying to be cryptic.
Roan weighed his options. If he tried to leave, he'd be forced into another guild—beggars, thieves, or worse. They were likely all in bed with each other anyway.
Leaving the city wasn't an option. No protection. No supplies. Bandits would eat him alive.
There wasn't really a choice.
"Fine," he said at last.
The woman grinned. "I'm Aisha. Aisha Ninefingers. Welcome. You're a smuggler now, Roan..."
She looked at him expectantly.
Roan said nothing.
Her grin widened. "Roan Ninefingers."