---The Borderlands - Iroquois Land---
The forest was a deceptive creature. To the untrained eye, it was a peaceful expanse of green and brown, alive with the rustle of leaves and the song of birds. But to those who knew how to look, it was a graveyard waiting to be filled.
Reuben, Thulani, and Shakoka moved through the undergrowth, their footsteps silent. They were supposed to be leading five hundred men, but those men were currently waiting a mile back, setting up a perimeter. The trio had moved ahead. They needed to see the path with their own eyes, not rely on reports from soldiers who were brave but inexperienced in the art of guerilla warfare. Shakoka was the most experienced when using the paths, and he himself insisted to do this.
Reuben paused, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He looked at the path ahead. It was slightly wider than the game trails they had been following, the bushes trimmed back just enough to suggest easy passage.
"...Take a look at that," Reuben murmured, tilting his head.
Shakoka stepped up beside him, his dark eyes scanning the route. He nodded grimly. "It looks inviting... too inviting."
"Safe route?" Thulani asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"A funnel," Shakoka corrected. "Along that road, the ground will turn marshy. The trees will close in. It is designed to break formations, to slow soldiers down so they bunch up. Then..."
He gestured to the ridges on either side. "They strike from multiple directions."
Reuben hummed, impressed. "So they're clearing bushes or subtly bending grass to let the enemy choose the wrong path. Classic."
"It's a trap taught by our ancestors," Shakoka agreed. "It's simple… but effective."
Thulani looked around, his massive frame seeming almost too large for the dense foliage. He shifted the weight of Excalibur on his back. "The forest around us... it feels too dense for my liking. Too many blind spots."
Reuben smirked, turning to his friend. "Oh? Don't tell me you're afraid of a few trees?"
"Tch," Thulani's eye twitched. He jerked a thumb at his sword. "My blade is too big for this area. I might mistakenly cleave trees and cause damage to our own troops if I swing too much."
"Then don't swing," Reuben teased, his hand flexing. The Sword of Damokles at his hip vibrated faintly, sensing the coming violence. "It's not like you don't know how to fight hand-to-hand combat. Or are you getting rusty?"
"It's easy for you to say," Thulani sighed, pushing a branch out of his way. "Your sword is short. This place suits your fighting style perfectly. I prefer open fields where I can use my reach."
Shakoka, leading the way, listened to the bickering and sighed. He had spent enough time with the Kenway family and the Vanguard to know this was how they bonded.
'Why are they always competing against each other?' Shakoka wondered, shaking his head. 'I guess I'll never understand.'
They continued walking, delving deeper into the forest. The terrain grew rockier, the trees gnarled and ancient.
Suddenly, they stopped… simultaneously.
"...You feel that?" Reuben questioned, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Of course," Thulani replied instantly, his hands moving to ready Excalibur despite his earlier complaints. "It's not like they're hiding that well."
Shakoka widened his eyes a little. He hadn't sensed anyone yet. Reuben and Thulani's awareness… honed by chakra and Alaric's training… was on a different level. He scanned the area quickly, his hunter's eyes picking out anomalies. A branch bent the wrong way. A shadow that didn't move with the wind.
He saw them. People in the tree branches with bows. Others in the bushes, clutching stolen muskets. Warriors with tomahawks waiting behind rocks.
"Damn..." Shakoka whispered. "It must be around twenty people."
"No," Thulani corrected, his eyes tracking movement behind a thicket. "There's twenty-nine."
"Close," Reuben smirked, unsheathing his short sword with a metallic hiss. "Thirty-six... that's the headcount."
Thulani raised a brow, checking his blind spot. "Oh... I missed the ones in the mud."
Before any of them could say anything else, the forest shifted. Subtly… deliberately.
The air tightened as they felt everyone's presence.
It wasn't the sound of movement that gave it away, but the absence of it. Birds went quiet. Insects paused mid-song. Even the leaves seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for a cue.
Thwip.
The first arrow came without warning.
It slipped out from the canopy at a shallow angle, not aimed to kill, but to test… its path precise, its timing intentional.
Reuben tilted his head. Just an inch.
The shaft passed by his ear, the fletching brushing against his hair. He didn't step back. He didn't draw his blade further. He simply watched the trajectory, analyzing the tension of the release, calculating the position of the archer.
"Bowmen favor staggered fire," Reuben murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "They're spacing shots to control our movement."
Thwip. Thwip.
A second arrow followed, then a third, each from a different elevation.
Thulani didn't dodge. He shifted his weight, turning his shoulder into the path of the first arrow. It struck his pauldron at an angle, skidding off the reinforced metal harmlessly. The second arrow aimed for his thigh; he simply lifted his leg, letting it bury itself in the dirt where his foot had been.
"They're disciplined…" Thulani noted. "…they're not wasting shots. Most men would've fired nonstop."
Shakoka stood still between them, feet planted, spine straight. His gaze moved… not to the attackers themselves, but to the spaces between them. He watched the undergrowth tremble where muskets were being raised, the faint curl of smoke before the shot was fired.
BANG.
The report cracked through the forest.
Shakoka took a single step to the side. The musket ball tore through the air where his ribs had occupied a moment earlier, embedding itself in a tree trunk.
"They're using terrain to force us to react," Shakoka said quietly. "They want to see how we defend."
Another volley came… arrows high and low, musket fire timed to follow just as the bowstrings went slack.
Reuben twisted his wrist. He caught a musket ball on the flat of his blade. Sparks flared briefly before vanishing. He adjusted his stance, deliberately exposing a shoulder. Two arrows were redirected toward it almost immediately.
"They're trying to read us," Reuben nodded, a predator's grin forming. "But that's too bad, we're the ones reading them ."
Minutes passed like this.
The trio moved, but never with urgency. Reuben took half-steps, just enough to avoid lethal angles, his eyes always searching, always counting. Thulani absorbed what he didn't bother to dodge, letting his armor serve as proof of endurance. Shakoka shifted only when necessary, memorizing the rhythm.
Then the ground-level fighters emerged.
They came in pairs, low and fast, blades flashing once before retreating, probing for weakness.
One slashed toward Reuben's side; he caught the wrist with two fingers, felt the tension in the muscles, the surprise, then released it without a counter.
Another drove a spear toward Thulani's abdomen; he caught the shaft in his palm, stopped it dead, and let it go as if it had never threatened him at all.
Shakoka watched their footwork closely. 'They don't commit unless they think they've earned it.'
Finally, he spoke.
"I think we've seen enough of their abilities and strategies, let's just end this."
The words were soft, but they carried weight.
Reuben straightened, rolling his neck once as if loosening tension that had never truly been there. Thulani's grin widened, his posture shifting from passive solidity to something coiled and eager. Chakra stirred… not flaring, not dramatic, but present, like heat beneath stone.
Shakoka bent his knees and leaped silently.
He touched the trunk once, then vanished upward, his form blurring as he moved from branch to branch with practiced ease. A bowman noticed him too late, eyes widening just as Shakoka's dagger found the base of his skull. The body slumped forward, caught by branches before it could fall. Another archer turned, loosing an arrow in panic from the enemy's abnormal speed… Shakoka twisted aside, the shaft grazing his sleeve, and sent his own blade flying in response.
The canopy began to empty.
Below, Reuben's hands moved.
Daggers left his fingers in smooth arcs, each throw measured, each target chosen not by proximity but by threat. The furthest enemies fell first… musketeers collapsing mid-reload, melee fighters dropping without ever realizing they'd been seen. Then Reuben was moving among the closer ones, his short sword flashing in controlled motions, every strike precise, every step calculated.
Thulani no longer waited.
He surged forward, the ground cracking beneath his feet as he closed distance in a heartbeat. The first enemy he reached was lifted clear off the ground by the impact alone. Thulani didn't slow. He barreled through the formation, blows heavy and relentless, bodies scattering like leaves in a storm.
The forest lost its rhythm.
Where there had been patience and spacing, there was now panic. Where there had been control, there was fear.
And standing at the center of it all were three figures who had allowed it to happen… only to prove that it never truly mattered.
---Philadelphia - The Royal Palace of Pennmere---
The Palace of Philadelphia stood as the architectural crown jewel of the new capital. Built from white stone and timber reinforced by Alaric's own hand, it was a structure that balanced Quaker simplicity with the grandeur required of a burgeoning kingdom. It did not loom over the city like a tyrant's fortress; rather, it sat at the head of the main avenue, watching over its people with a stoic, marble gaze.
Alaric walked up the main steps, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. He moved with a casual confidence that seemed to part the air around him.
Inside the grand foyer, the atmosphere was hushed and busy. Clerks scurried with stacks of parchment, and minor nobles whispered in alcoves.
The Lord Chamberlain, a man named Percival with a stiff collar and an even stiffer upper lip, stood by the entrance to the inner sanctum. He was currently berating a junior guard for a scuff on his boot when he noticed the intruder.
"Halt!" Percival turned, his face flushing with indignation. "Sir! You cannot simply waltz into the Royal Residence unannounced! There are protocols! There are lists! Who do you think—"
He stopped.
The man in the crimson coat stopped chewing his unlit cigar and looked down at him. The blue eyes were amused, but there was a weight behind them that made Percival's throat go dry.
"Alaric... Kenway?" Percival squeaked, his bluster evaporating instantly.
"That's me," Alaric smiled, a charming expression that didn't quite reach his predator's eyes. "Is William in?"
"Y-Your Grace!" Percival bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the floor. "My apologies! I did not recognize you immediately! The King is... he is currently engaged, but for you... I am certain he will make time. Please, allow me to escort you."
"No need," Alaric waved him off, already walking past. "I know the way."
As Alaric ascended the grand staircase, ignoring the flustered Chamberlain trailing behind him, a figure watched from a window on the second-floor landing.
Sebastian, the King's shadow and personal valet, stood perfectly still. He adjusted his cufflink, his eyes tracking Alaric's ascent. He didn't bow. He didn't smile. He simply nodded once... a gesture of respect between men who knew where the true power in the room lay... and vanished down a servant's corridor to prepare.
Alaric paid the stares of the courtiers no mind. He wasn't a celebrity in the traditional sense; he didn't crave the applause of the masses. Yet, he was unaware that "The Red Coat Kenway" was already a whispered legend in the courts of Europe... the merchant prince who sank a navy and built a kingdom from the shadows.
---The King's Study---
Alaric let himself into Penn's office.
It was a massive room, easily twice the size of Alaric's own study at the mansion. High ceilings painted with frescoes of the New World's landscapes looked down upon a room filled with books, maps, and the smell of ink.
Alaric didn't sit in the guest chair. He walked to the window, looking out at the city he had helped birth, before finally settling into a plush leather armchair near the desk. He snapped his fingers, lighting his cigar, and poured himself a cup of Celestial Tea from the silver service that was always kept ready.
He waited.
Five minutes later, the heavy oak door creaked.
William Penn Sr. entered.
The King of Pennmere looked... heavy. His shoulders, usually squared with purpose, held a subtle tension. The lines on his forehead seemed deeper than Alaric remembered from a week ago. He carried a stack of documents as if they were lead weights.
He paused just inside the doorway, seeing the smoke curling in the air. He didn't look angry. He looked relieved.
"Ah… Alaric," Penn said, his voice calm but threading with a subtle strain. He straightened his coat, taking a breath as if to shake off an invisible burden. He raised a hand toward the empty corner. "Sebastian! A cup of Celestial Tea, if you would."
Sebastian, who had materialized from the shadows near the bookshelf as if he had been part of the furniture, inclined in a crisp bow and glided out without a word.
"I hope you haven't been waiting too long," Penn said, stepping further into the room. His gaze flicked briefly to the ornate ceiling, as if seeking composure from the architecture itself. "I can't imagine... well, the day has been… relentless."
Alaric leaned back, resting one arm across the chair. He lifted the cigar, inspecting the ash. A small, wry smile tugged at his lips. "Not long at all. I've only been here a few minutes."
"That's… good to hear," Penn allowed a small, genuine smile to cross his features. He settled into his chair behind the massive desk, the wood groaning slightly. He rubbed a hand across his face, attempting to massage away hours of diplomacy and dispute.
Alaric's smile widened just slightly.
"You've been very busy, ever since you became King," he remarked. The words were casual, but they carried the weight of observation.
"You don't know how busy I am," Penn said with a faint, dry chuckle. "I mean… Pennmere's not even a year old. And it screams like a newborn day and night."
He leaned back, hands resting on the polished wood, eyes distant. He was counting every task, every decree, every letter still waiting for his signature.
"I can imagine," Alaric said, letting a stream of tea-colored smoke drift toward the high ceiling. "A kingdom that young and… thriving… must demand everything of its King. Success has its own gravity."
At that precise moment, the soft sound of polished shoes on stone signaled Sebastian's return. He entered the office carrying a silver tray. The cup of Celestial Tea steamed gently, smelling of jasmine and peace. He bowed slightly toward Pennmere's King before placing the cup carefully on the desk, then retreated into the background.
"Thank you, Sebastian," Penn said, his voice lighter now. He glanced toward Alaric. "I trust the day finds you well? The family said you were traveling."
'I see no one in the family notified Penn of my return yet. Well... I've only been back a few hours.'
Alaric lifted the cigar. "Quite well. Traveling clears the mind. Though coming back to see the kingdom standing is always a plus."
Penn's lips quirked. He picked up the cup, letting the warmth settle in his cold hands. For a brief moment, the tension of the office seemed to ease, the Celestial Tea working its subtle magic on his chakra network.
Penn exhaled, long and weary.
"Some days," he said, staring into the pale surface of the liquid, "I envy the silence of this room when I am not in it."
Alaric leaned back, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.
"That silence is borrowed," Alaric said, his voice mild but piercing. "You'll pay for it later. Silence in a King's office usually means something is burning outside."
Penn huffed a tired laugh. He studied Alaric's face... the ease in his posture, the unhurried calm that seemed almost insulting when set against the frantic energy of the court. "You always did have a talent for reminding me of inconvenient truths. You arrived unannounced like always. That usually means you're either bored… or you've thought of something."
"Correct on the second one," Alaric's mouth curved slightly. He gestured vaguely with the cigar. "Word travels faster than ships these days. Even faster than rumors ought to. You've been signing decrees at a pace that would make most European chanceries weep."
Penn grimaced and took a careful sip of tea. "Every parchment comes with ten more behind it. Borders to secure. Courts to establish. Governors who think distance makes them clever." He set the cup down. "And then there is the treasury."
Alaric's gaze sharpened. Not alarmed, but attentive. "Go on."
Penn leaned back, the chair creaking softly. "The people are restless in a way I did not expect. Victorious, yes. Proud, certainly. But they look at the Crown now and expect miracles. Lower taxes, better roads, full granaries, strong fleets." He spread his hands helplessly. "All reasonable desires. All expensive."
He let his hands fall back onto the desk.
"They hear that Pennmere has defeated Britain," he continued, voice low. "That we stood against an empire and won. They hear of overflowing harvests, of cheap bread, of coin moving freely through the markets. And so they believe the Crown possesses a bottomless coffer."
His gaze lifted, fixing on Alaric with intense seriousness.
"Expectation, Alaric, is a heavier burden than war."
Alaric did not answer immediately. He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, tapping the ash into the tray. Smoke curled upward as he exhaled, unhurried, measured.
"That belief," he said at last, "is dangerous only if you attempt to satisfy it the wrong way."
Penn's brow furrowed. "You mean restraint? That's political suicide right now."
"No... I mean structure."
Alaric straightened slightly in his chair. The casual ease remained, but it was now sharpened by intent.
"You don't have a treasury problem, William. You have a perception problem. The people believe money is conjured by decree. You and I know better that that's never the case."
Penn gave a thin, tired smile. "If only knowing were enough."
"It rarely is," Alaric replied. "That's why I came. I knew we'd have this conversation soon enough."
The King fell silent, studying him. The office felt suddenly smaller, focused entirely on the space between them.
"You've built a kingdom faster than any in living memory," Alaric continued, conversational yet authoritative. "Trade flows. Food is abundant. Coin circulates. And yet, if you allow the treasury to become the answer to every request, Pennmere will rot from abundance before it ever starves."
Penn exhaled slowly through his nose. "Then speak plainly. What would you have me do? I'm asking as your long-time business partner."
Alaric's gaze drifted briefly toward the tall windows, where sunlight spilled across the polished floor.
"First," he said, looking back. "Stop worrying about food."
Penn blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Stop—"
"The family didn't report it yet, but the farms under the Kenway name," Alaric went on, cutting gently but decisively, "are producing more than the internal markets can consume. Even with exports moving steadily to foreign ports, the surplus remains obscene by any reasonable measure."
He gestured faintly with the cigar.
"There are regions where grain sits longer in storage than it ever did under British rule. And the militia... your militia... are being fed in part by donated excess from my silos."
Penn stared at him. "Donated?"
"Yes." Alaric nodded once. "It keeps costs down, morale up, and prevents spoilage. The Crown does not need to subsidize food prices when abundance itself does the work. Bread will remain cheap not because you command it so, but because there is too much grain for it to be otherwise."
A silence followed, thick and contemplative.
"…You could have told me this sooner," Penn said quietly.
"And I'm telling you this now," Alaric replied, unbothered. "Though I assumed you already knew."
Penn let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. "You always did assume much of me."
"And you usually met the expectation."
The King leaned back, one hand coming up to rest against his chin. "Very well. Food is secure. That leaves coin."
"That leaves circulation," Alaric corrected. "Which brings us to the bank."
Penn's eyes flicked to him instantly. "The Celestial Bank."
Alaric inclined his head. "It already exists in practice as a private entity. I propose we formalize its role."
He leaned forward now, forearms resting lightly on the armrests.
"The Celestial Bank does not create wealth. It measures it. Every coin, every credit, every mark that passes through it corresponds to completed labor, delivered goods, or stored reserves. No speculation. No lending against promises that have yet to be fulfilled."
Penn's fingers tapped once against the desk. "You are describing restraint where most kingdoms chase expansion through debt."
"I am describing survival, William. Our economy's inflation is already going crazy... we have to control it." Alaric said evenly. "And expansion without discipline breeds inflation. Inflation breeds unrest. Unrest invites revolt or foreign interference. Pennmere has enemies who would love nothing more than to see its economy collapse from within."
Penn's gaze hardened at that, but he nodded.
"The bank," Alaric continued, "will serve as the sole artery through which Crown funds move. No more wagons of coin rolling between palace and treasury. No vaults beneath the throne that tempt thieves or conspirators."
Penn's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. "You intend to centralize it."
"I intend to safeguard it and provide convenience," Alaric replied. "The Crown will have its own account within the Celestial Bank. Funds disbursed for infrastructure, defense, governance... everything accounted for, immutable, untouchable except by authorized hands."
"And those hands," Penn said slowly, "would be…?"
"Yours," Alaric said without hesitation. "And those you designate. The bank answers to the Crown... but it does not obey whims. Money moves only when cause exists."
The King was quiet for a long moment.
"You are asking me to bind my own power," Penn said at last. "I did not seek the crown… but neither will I wear it hollowed."
"I am asking you to preserve it," Alaric countered.
"A king who can print coin is feared for his volatility. Every decree carries the threat of sudden devaluation, every favor the suspicion of bought loyalty. Markets brace instead of build. Lords hoard instead of invest."
He held Penn's gaze steadily.
"But a king who cannot abuse the treasury is trusted for his stability. His promises mean something. His currency holds. And when he does spend… on roads, armies, or relief… it carries weight, because everyone knows it was earned, not conjured."
Penn closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, resolve settling in his gaze.
"And your own role in this?" he asked. "Your "Celestial" brand move more coin than any other enterprise in Pennmere... maybe even in the entire world."
Alaric nodded once, already expecting the question. "They do. Which is why, starting November of this year, all Celestial enterprises... including the farms, the manufacturing, and the shipping... will be taxed at fifteen percent and will start paying the moment the tax papers from the Celestial Bank release."
"It's quite interesting to hear you asking to tax yourself," Penn's head lifted sharply. " But fifteen percent? That places you at the highest threshold. That's millions lad."
"As it should," Alaric said simply. "Revenue is revenue. Scale does not excuse obligation."
'That's basically saying influence does not exempt responsibility,' The King stared at him, disbelief flickering briefly across his face before giving way to something deeper… gratitude, perhaps, tinged with awe.
"You do realize," Penn said quietly, "that no man would fault you for seeking exemption. You built this economy."
"I am not interested in fault," Alaric replied. "I am interested in precedent. What if we won't be the ones to lead this Kingdom anymore?"
"Oh?" Penn let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Don't you have the ability to de-age people? Aren't we... indefinite?"
He rose slowly from his chair, pacing once behind the desk before stopping, both hands braced against its edge. "Well, not that it matters... you're right. There'll come a time where we get tired of running this Kingdom but that's a conversation we should have when everything's stable..."
"...You've thought of everything," Penn said. Not as flattery. As fact. "It's a perfect plan."
"It's an 'enough' plan," Alaric corrected, extinguishing his cigar. "The only perfect thing in this world is my beautiful face. This is merely resilient."
Penn was taken aback for a moment before chuckling. It seemed to lighten up the mood a little. He straightened, decision settling over him like a mantle.
"Very well," he said. "I will issue a royal charter. The Celestial Bank will be recognized as the national bank of Pennmere. The Crown's treasury will reside within it, safeguarded, measured, and beyond misuse."
His gaze met Alaric's, steady and sincere.
"You have my word."
Alaric leaned back again, the tension easing from his shoulders.
"Good," he said mildly. "Then Pennmere will endure long after rumors fade."
Penn allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "I do not say this lightly, Alaric… but Pennmere would not exist without you."
Alaric smiled back, looking toward the tall windows where the sun was setting over the city they built.
"And Pennmere wouldn't be a Kingdom like it is today without a leader like you, Penn," he replied. "I'm not the type of person to talk about feelings, but we did a great job in creating a kingdom that despises the art of slavery and values the man."
Penn smiled as he himself grabbed a Premium Cigar from the box on his desk. "Well... unto other matters that you can help me with..."
Alaric raised a brow. "Hit me."
"Regarding the sudden influx of migration from the southern colonies..."
"...so what we should do is..."
"...about that..."
Time seemed to pass unnoticed while they both conversed, two architects of a nation discussing the blueprints of the future. Pennmere was the same today as it was yesterday, but tomorrow... tomorrow it would be unbreakable.
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