Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

Robert led them through the wealthier district of the capital.

Aria kept looking around, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed resentment. The streets were cleaner here—no mud, no garbage, no suspicious puddles that might have been something worse. The buildings were bigger, their facades adorned with intricate carvings and polished stone. Even the people looked expensive, their clothes crisp and unworn, their steps unhurried in a way that spoke of lives free from desperate worry.

Kelme leaned toward her, his voice low and bitter. "I hate rich people."

Aria shot him a look. "You were a vampire. You were supposed to be rich, you idiot."

"I said what I said."

Robert stopped in front of a bakery. It wasn’t particularly large—not the kind of establishment that would draw attention from the street. Not flashy. Not grand. Just clean. Quiet. The kind of place that had been there for years, serving its customers without making a fuss about it.

A small brass sign hung above the door, polished to a soft gleam. MARCEL’S BAKERY.

Aria looked at Robert, her brow furrowed. "This is the man?"

Robert nodded, his expression unreadable. "He’s more than a baker."

"What is he?"

Robert opened the door, a hint of something like amusement flickering in his tired eyes. "That’s what you’re here to find out."

---

The smell of fresh bread filled the room.

It was warm and comforting, the kind of scent that made you want to sit down and stay awhile. The interior was simple—wooden shelves, a glass counter displaying an array of pastries and loaves, and a single table near the window where a few customers sat sipping coffee.

A man stood behind the counter. Middle-aged, perfectly dressed in a clean white apron, his hands folded in front of him with the calm patience of someone who had been doing this for a very long time. His expression was neutral, his posture relaxed, his eyes carrying the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly who he was and what he was worth.

He looked at Robert. "Canonist."

"Marcel."

"You’re early."

Robert smiled, a thin expression. "I brought clients."

Marcel’s eyes moved toward Aria and Kelme. He didn’t ask who they were. He simply looked at them, his gaze steady and assessing, taking in every detail of their appearance with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to read people in a single glance.

For a moment, nobody spoke. The silence stretched between them, comfortable for Marcel, deeply uncomfortable for everyone else.

Then Marcel smiled politely. "How may I help you?"

Aria stepped forward, her heart pounding despite her best efforts to stay calm. "We have sugar."

Marcel’s smile didn’t move. "I see."

"Illegal sugar."

"I see."

"We can make more."

"I see."

Kelme leaned toward Aria, his voice barely a whisper. "He says ’I see’ a lot."

Marcel’s eyes shifted toward him, sharp and suddenly focused. Kelme immediately straightened, his posture snapping to attention like a soldier caught slacking.

"Nice bakery," Kelme said, his voice carrying a note of forced cheerfulness.

Aria kicked his foot.

Marcel calmly wiped his hands with a cloth, his movements unhurried and deliberate. "How much?"

Aria hesitated. "Not much yet."

"How much?"

She placed one small bag on the counter. The brownish crystals inside looked even more pathetic in the clean, well-lit bakery.

Marcel looked at it. He opened the bag, examining the contents with the critical eye of a craftsman assessing a piece of work. He held a few crystals up to the light, tilted the bag to see how they moved, even brought one to his nose for a brief sniff.

Then he closed it. "Poor quality."

Aria’s confidence cracked. "What?"

"The crystals are inconsistent. The color is off. And the texture suggests you didn’t filter it properly."

Kelme whispered, "Translation: our sugar sucks."

"I heard that," Aria muttered, her cheeks flushing.

Marcel looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You made this?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Aria smiled, a flash of defiance in her eyes. "Trade secret."

Marcel nodded slowly. "Good."

Aria blinked. "Good?"

"A person who gives away their secrets freely shouldn’t be trusted with them." He placed the bag back on the counter, his movements deliberate. "I will buy it."

Aria’s eyes lit up. "How much?"

Marcel named a price.

Kelme nearly fell over. "That much?"

Marcel looked at him, a hint of amusement finally appearing in his calm expression. "For a product the kingdom has banned?" He smiled. "People pay more for things they’re told they cannot have."

Aria slowly smiled, the pieces clicking into place. Now she understood. Supply. Demand. Risk. Profit. This wasn’t just about sugar anymore—it was about understanding how the world worked, about finding the cracks in the system and exploiting them.

She leaned toward the counter, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "How much could you sell?"

Marcel looked directly into her eyes, his gaze steady and unwavering. "As much as you can make."

Silence. Kelme stared at Aria. Aria stared at Marcel. Then she smiled, a slow, dangerous expression that would have concerned anyone who knew her well.

"Then we’ll make more."

Marcel nodded, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "Good."

Robert cleared his throat. "My introduction fee."

Aria groaned. "Already?"

Robert smiled, his tired eyes gleaming with amusement. "Especially already."

She reached into her pocket and handed him a piece of bread she’d grabbed from the shed. He stared at it. Something in him seemed to give up.

"This is insulting."

"It’s all we have."

Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine."

He turned toward the door, then stopped. "One piece of advice."

Aria looked at him. "Don’t get greedy." Robert glanced at Marcel, his expression suddenly serious. "People notice greed."

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Kelme watched him disappear, his brow furrowed. "That’s surprisingly good advice."

Aria looked at the empty bag on the counter. "We’re going to need a lot more equipment."

Kelme nodded. "And money."

Aria smiled, a glint of determination in her eyes. "We have a buyer." She picked up the empty bag, holding it like a trophy. "Now we just need to become good at this."

Behind the counter, Marcel watched them leave, his expression perfectly calm. His eyes followed them through the window until they disappeared around the corner.

Then he reached beneath the counter, his fingers finding the familiar leather binding of a worn ledger. He pulled it out, its pages filled with dozens of names. Nobles. Merchants. Officials. People who mattered in the city, who had power and influence and secrets.

And beside several of them were small red marks—notes, codes, warnings.

Marcel added a new name. Aria. Then, beneath it: Unknown producer.

He closed the book, his fingers lingering on the worn cover. "Interesting."

The bakery door shut behind them. And for the first time, Aria realized something. Making money had been difficult. But making money without getting caught was going to be much harder.

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