I had made a ripple. A small wave in the vast ocean of Clockthon, but enough to send fragments lapping at the shores of other players. The invitation to the rooftop of the Wool Exchange Building was both a summons and an acknowledgment that I could no longer operate in absolute shadow. They knew there was a new player on the chessboard, even if they hadn't seen my full face. I had already burned the letter, its ashes now one with the dust of my office, but its message was etched into my mind.
That night, Clockthon wore its usual shroud of fog, muffling the glow of gas lamps into pale halos and making shadows appear deeper, more alive. I did not go to the meeting armed or armored. My best preparation was information, and the absence of expectations. I had spent the afternoon dispatching a series of coded messages through the newly formed informant network. I wanted to know everything about the Wool Exchange Building: its layout, guard schedules, hidden access points, and most importantly, who had access to its rooftop at night.
The answers that came back were fewer than I'd hoped. The building was a secular fortress, tightly guarded by private security forces hired by the Wool Merchants' Guild, a cartel, really, whose power rivaled some of the lesser noble houses. Its rooftop was off-limits, accessible only via a private steam lift, the key to which was held by five members of the guild's board. This meant that whoever invited me had significant influence within the guild, or was skilled enough to bypass an extraordinarily secure system.
I arrived in the Financial District an hour before midnight. The buildings here stood taller, prouder than those in other districts. Their stone facades were pristine, and the air felt colder, as if even heat was reluctant to stain such clean, wealthy ground. I didn't head straight to the Wool Exchange. I observed from a distance, from the shadows of an alley across the street, mapping security patrols and searching for anything abnormal. Nothing stood out. Everything moved by schedule, too much by schedule. Perfect security is often the easiest illusion to penetrate.
Exactly fifteen minutes before midnight, I moved. I didn't attempt the front door. According to the building blueprints I'd obtained, an old steam maintenance tunnel ran beneath the structure, connecting to the central heating system. That was my entry point. After crawling past a series of rusted hot pipes and hissing valves, I found an emergency service ladder that brought me inside the building's walls. From there, navigating to the private steam lift was a matter of patience and timing.
I reached the rooftop just as the central clock tower began to chime twelve times. The rooftop was wide and flat, lined with lead tiles, offering a 360-degree view of the entire city. Thin fog danced between stone chimneys, and beneath me, Clockthon looked like a man-made universe.
The figure was already waiting.
They stood near the ledge, back turned to me, staring toward the port district. They wore a dark long coat that fluttered gently in the wind, and their silhouette was slender, almost androgynous. As the final chime echoed, they turned.
The figure was a woman. Perhaps in her late twenties, though it was hard to say. Her face bore a striking, aristocratic beauty, high cheekbones and thin lips curled in a faint, amused smile. Her hair was snow white, tied into an intricate bun, and her eyes were pale violet—the color of twilight, and looked at me with the weight of someone of undeniable intellect. She radiated no overt aura of Essence, but her presence was heavy, like the air before a storm.
On her collar, I saw a small silver brooch, a raven perched atop a scale. The symbol from the letter.
"Punctual," she said, her voice smooth as silk, but with a steely undertone. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come, Mr. Rothes. Or should I call you… the Archon of Knowledge?"
My heart didn't skip a beat. I kept my expression neutral. She knew the alias William had given me. That meant William worked for her, or they shared a source of information.
"You have the advantage," I replied evenly. "You know my name. I don't know yours."
She gave a soft chuckle, a sound like the chime of crystal. "Names are labels. Function matters more. Think of me as a representative of the entity whose attention you've attracted. We are a group of investors, if you will. We invest in the stability and growth of this kingdom. And your presence, Mr. Archon, is an anomaly that could disrupt the market."
"Stability is often just another word for stagnation," I replied. "I have no intention of disrupting you. My goal is optimization."
"Optimization," she echoed, tasting the word. "An interesting term. Does shutting down a fish-packing operation that feeds fifty families count as optimization? Or was that merely the first step in building your own empire atop their ruins?"
She knew the details. Her network was vast and efficient.
"Those ruins existed long before I arrived," I said. "I merely swept them clean and tried to build something more stable atop a cleared foundation. The public kitchen I established will employ more people than those who were laid off and will serve the community better. That is optimization, from any rational angle."
"From your perspective," she corrected gently. "But what about House Droct's perspective, who just lost their unofficial income stream from the shipping companies you 'rescued'? What about the Wool Merchants' Guild, who see you building an independent logistics network that could one day rival theirs?"
"That's their problem, not mine," I said. "A free market will select for the most efficient player."
"My, a free market devotee," she smiled wider. "An interesting ideology, but naïve in a world governed by bloodlines and ancient powers that care nothing for supply and demand. You think you can build your logic engine in the middle of this feudal jungle and not get bitten by the wolves already there?"
"Every engine needs fuel," I said. "I'm just changing the kind of fuel it runs on."
She stepped closer, her movements graceful and silent. "You're intelligent, I admit that. And dangerous. A rare combination. That's why we haven't removed you. We have a proposal."
"I'm listening."
"We see potential in your operations. Doyle Acquisition, an efficient tool for asset restructuring. We want to invest."
I didn't show surprise. I had already inferred that this would be a logical move from their perspective. If you can't beat a new player, join them. That way, you can control them from within.
"What kind of investment?"
"We'll give you access to far greater capital. We'll open doors for you to political and commercial circles you'd never reach on your own. We'll protect you from wolves like House Droct," she said. "In return, we ask only one thing, transparency. We want to know your every step, your every plan. We want a seat on your shadow board. You'll remain in control—but we'll be your supervisory council."
A tempting offer, and a perfect trap. They offered power and protection at the price of my freedom. A golden leash around my neck.
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
Her smile didn't fade, but her eyes grew colder. "Then we'll consider you a hostile competitor. And we handle competitors very… efficiently. Doyle Acquisition will face endless government audits. Your suppliers will abruptly cancel contracts. Your workers will be incited to strike. The Fravikveidimadr leash around your neck will suddenly tighten. We have many tools in our arsenal, Mr. Archon."
The threat was delivered with the grace of a diplomat, making it all the more terrifying. They wouldn't kill me, yet. But they would strangle me slowly, with bureaucracy and economic pressure.
I stood still, processing the variables. Accepting their offer meant sacrificing autonomy, but it would accelerate my plans tenfold. Refusing meant declaring war on an invisible force with immense reach.
This was the hardest risk calculation I had ever faced. Pure logic wasn't enough. It required a leap of faith, or rather, trust in my own ability to manipulate the situation even from a disadvantaged position.
"I need time to consider," I finally said.
"Of course," she replied. "We're not tyrants. Or, if you like, think of us as business partners. You have until the next dawn to decide. Just send your message through one of your Magpies. He works for us too, of course."
A final blow. She told me even the network I'd just built had already been breached. The Magpie was a double agent.
"One more question," I said as she turned to leave. "Who are 'we'?"
She paused and glanced back slightly, the moonlight illuminating half her pale face. "Just call us… The Consortium. Good night, Mr. Rothes."
With that, she walked to the edge of the rooftop and, without hesitation, stepped into the darkness. I heard no fall. She simply vanished.
I was left alone on the cold rooftop, Clockthon sprawling beneath me, with an impossible choice ahead. I had underestimated the complexity of this chessboard. I thought I was playing against feudal lords and corrupt bureaucrats. Turns out, there were other players, organized, ruthless, and brilliant business syndicates.
I looked at my hand. For eight years, I had honed it into an instrument of analysis and strategy. I believed I could control every variable. This meeting reminded me that there would always be variables I couldn't predict.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I didn't know what the most logical next move was. I stood at a crossroads, each path hidden in fog.
As I walked home through the empty streets, I didn't feel defeated. For now, I felt something else. Something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Doubt.
And within that doubt, a flicker of something strange and unwelcome. Excitement, at a true challenge.
That night, in the empty headquarters of Doyle Acquisition, I didn't sleep despite being tired. I stood before my board, but I didn't add any pins or draw any new threads. I just stared at a blurry photo of myself.
Archon of Knowledge. The Archon.
Or should I say… "the Evil"?
An ironic name for someone whose foundation had just been shaken.
Dawn would come. And I would have to choose, bend to The Consortium and play their game, or challenge them and face the consequences.
There was no safe choice. No easy path.
This was the real world. Not a tidy chessboard that could always be controlled. The world was a brutal ecosystem, only the most adaptive would survive.
I took a coin from my pocket. One side bore the royal emblem. The other was blank. I tossed it into the air.
Not to decide my fate.
But to remind myself that in the end, every choice is a gamble.
And I've always been a good gambler.