The suffocating smoke of an oil lamp. A fourth mug of cold tea. On the workbench sat a mountain of scribbled sheets, numbers, and jagged lines.
The day had flown by unnoticed; night had long since settled outside the window.
Valdes sat opposite, propping up his heavy head with a hand.
"Have you thought it over, Iron?" Valdes’s voice had grown thicker, but the pressure within it was still palpable. "Changed your mind?"
"My answer remains the same," Iron said. "The Crown will not receive one hundred percent of the ore."
Valdes snapped upright. His palm struck the tabletop with force, making the clay mugs jump.
"I am doubling the stakes, boy. Two supply caravans every two weeks. A triple supply of medical goods. Personal guarantees of safety in my name for every soul within these walls. I will sign any decree right now. Your town will receive the status of an imperial enclave. What else do you need? Weapons? Fabrics? Gold? Name your price."
With a sudden jerk, the king slid a clean parchment and an inkwell toward Iron.
Iron silently picked up a blunt pencil, turned over one of the scribbled sheets, and drew a thick, uneven line down the middle.
"Look here, Valdes. A double caravan of food—and my people will stop tilling the soil within a month. Why gather a meager harvest from rocky ground if a kind king sends white bread for free? Your guard on the walls—and my people will forget which end of a crossbow to hold. You will make us dependent on your needle."
Iron tapped the lead against the paper.
"And in five to ten years, when the upper layers of ore run dry or a crisis begins in your capital, you will simply pack up camp, take your soldiers, and leave. And you will leave me with a crowd of helpless dependents in the middle of a wild forest."
The engineer dropped the pencil onto the table. It rolled and fell onto the dirty floor.
"We can talk about shipments, but control over the volume and distribution remains mine. Forty percent of the yield. That is my ceiling. Either we trade on these terms, or we do not trade at all."
The conversation had been going in circles for the tenth hour now. Every word weighed a ton. Iron looked out the window. Dark.
"It is already late," he said quietly, looking at the exhausted king. "Spend one more night."
Valdes gave a short shake of his head.
"Forgive me, but I must return to my kingdom."
"Then let me see you out."
The night air hit their faces after the stifling workshop. A dense darkness hung at the gates of Dornheim. The carriage lanterns barely pierced the gloom.
Iron stopped his chair right at the threshold.
The carriage door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Arian and the guards took their positions. The horses bolted forward.
Iron raised his palm after the departing cortege. As soon as the rumble of the wheels vanished entirely, he relaxed his shoulders, dropping his hands heavily onto the armrests. His head was pounding. He exhaled deeply:
"Finally gone..."
Meanwhile, inside the carriage, it was dark and jarring. The wheels repeatedly fell into road potholes.
Arian remained silent for a long time, staring at the king's profile. Finally, the young guard could not hold back:
"Your Majesty... did we really just leave it like that? Is this normal? We are leaving with nothing."
Valdes smiled grimly.
"With nothing? This is only the beginning. Dornheim is a bone in the throat, but not just for me. Besides me, there are two others. Edriac and Olgerd."
The king turned to his subordinate.
"I showed Dornheim that the Crown can be peaceful. Now, I wash my hands of it. Let those two try to 'persuade' him now. Let's see what comes of it."
Valdes suddenly fell silent. His fingers clenched into fists.
"I am sick of it..." he hissed through his teeth, fury cutting into his voice. "Sick of dancing to his tune."
In the morning, Dornheim instantly returned to its familiar reality—mud, engine oil, and hard labor.
A deafening roar filled the square once more. Axes thudded, saws shrieked, and workers hauled heavy, raw logs for new barracks. Marek stood by the sawmill, shouting himself hoarse at the lumberjacks, demanding they speed up. In the infirmary, Doctor Albert silently and intently brewed fresh ointments, laying out clean bandages.
Iron rolled out to the forge. The sun cut his eyes.
By the awning, leaning his back against a wooden beam, he stood.
"Noah," Iron stopped his chair nearby. "Stop loafing around. There is work to do."
"What do you want?"
"Take your men. Go down into the lower veins of the mines. We need to bring up as much black ore as possible. I need massive stockpiles right now."
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