The four heavy-laden galleons—the Julia, the Cealina, the Maria, and the recently loaded Amelia—plow through the deep azure ocean swells, their dark wooden hulls riding low and heavy under the weight of their cargo. Broad trade winds snap against the bleached canvas of the sails, filling the rigging with a low, rhythmic hum. Spray breaks over the high bows, sending salt mist flying across the sunlit decks where salt-crusted timbers creak in steady rhythm. By the fifth morning after leaving the misty bays of Lactuca, the sheer volcanic cliffs and fortified optical signal towers of the Almathea Archipelago slice through the clinging coastal fog. Great jagged crests of dark basalt rise out of the white surf, crowned by the iron-caged mirrors of coastal signaling posts that flash silently against the morning horizon.
Rather than making the long, costly trek upstream toward the distant inland reaches of Aquapolis, the fleet alters course, turning its prows directly into the sprawling, sheltered waters of Almathea Grand Harbour. The harbor stretches wide before them, a vast saltwater basin shielded by ancient stone breakwaters where white-crested waves crash into spray. It is a chaotic engine of pure commerce. Long lines of wooden docks and stone piers reach into the water like fingers, crowded with heavy oak crane arms, stone bonded warehouses, and bustling merchant counting houses operating under the strictly pragmatic, business-friendly administration of Mayor Marcia Valeria Fontana. Seagulls dive in screaming spirals over the bobbing masts of coastal schooners, merchant brigantines, and heavy barges, while the air carries the sharp brine of the tide mixed with the smell of wet hemp, coal smoke, and pine tar.
The Amelia glides toward the central stone pier, its thick hawser ropes flying through the air to be caught by quay workers who loop them around massive iron mooring posts. The oak timbers groan as the ships come to rest against the heavy timber bumpers.
On the flat stones of the pier, a long wooden table sits under the shadow of a high crane, set up by a consortium of Ofliran commodity brokers. Dozens of sweat-slicked dockworkers are already swarming the Amelia's main hatchways, hauling the luxury cargoes out of the dark holds using heavy rope pulleys that screech under the weight. Great iron-hooped barrels of refined sugar, sloshing casks of thick molasses, and sealed tuns of aged rum brought from the heat of Ambustus are hoisted into the open air alongside dense canvas sacks of high-grade highland coffee beans and fermented cocoa from Lactuca.
Aldo, Onaga, and Adelberd stand shoulder to shoulder before the long wooden table. Onaga holds a thick parchment ledger in both hands, his eyes darting across the dark ink lines while his slender index finger traces the carefully recorded tallies.
"Refined sugar, four hundred barrels," Onaga reads aloud, his voice clear over the clatter of iron chains and the shouts of the dockworkers. He shifts his grip on the ledger, turning his wrist slightly to double-check the figures. "Highland Lactucan coffee, eighty crates. Raw cocoa, sixty-five sacks. Premium hardwood timber, thirty-two tons."
Across the table sits the chief broker, a broad, fat Ofliran man wearing a dark silk coat trimmed with tarnished silver thread. His thumbs are permanently stained with purple ledger ink, and his round, sweat-beaded face shines under the midday sun. He holds a piece of flat slate in one hand and a chalk stub in the other, tapping the slate rhythmically as he tallies the figures. His small eyes dart from the parchment to the heavy wooden crates swinging overhead on the crane arm.
He lets out a low, breathless whistle, snapping the chalk down onto the table with a sharp clatter. He picks up a heavy brass seal, presses it firmly into a block of hot red wax on a parchment bill, and stamps the document flat.
"You boys timed the market perfectly," the chief broker chuckles, his thick belly shaking slightly against the edge of the wooden table as a wide grin stretches his greasy cheeks. "Coffee prices in Aquapolis hit a three-year high last week, and the Sugar Guild right here in Almathea is desperate for rum stock. Net payout, after harbour tariffs and brokerage fees: four thousand, two hundred gold solidi, plus seven hundred silver pieces."
Beside Aldo, Adelberd stands frozen in his rigid military posture, his boots pressed together and his hands tucked tightly behind his back. At the mention of the sum, his eyes widen slightly, his jaw tightening as his head tilts back a fraction of an inch.
"A fortune..." Adelberd murmurs, his eyebrows twitching upward.
Aldo does not blink. He reaches out a steady hand, his fingers closing around the wax-sealed bank draught resting on the wooden table, slipping it smoothly between his leather-gloved fingers. His expression remains entirely flat, his dark eyes cold and vacant of any excitement.
"It is capital," Aldo corrects flatly, his tone even and devoid of emotion. "And capital is useless if it sits in a chest."
Without pausing, Aldo turns his body toward Onaga, his shadow falling over the younger boy's ledger.
"Take half the gold draughts to the Grain Guild at North Pier," Aldo commands, his voice firm and absolute. "Purchase two hundred tons of processed rye, whole wheat, and dried legumes. I want the holds of the Amelia and Maria packed until their keels scrape the water."
Onaga dips a wooden quill into a small brass inkwell hanging from his belt, his hand moving in swift, practiced strokes across the ledger page to record the order. He looks up, his dark eyes wide with curiosity.
"And the remaining funds?" Onaga asks, dipping his quill once more to await the next entry.
"We rearm and expand," Aldo says smoothly, his hand adjusting the edge of his collar before dropping back to his side. "Adelberd, come with me to the Admiralty Armory and the Mercenary Guild. We have five hundred more mouths to feed, and they will need iron."
By early afternoon, the stone quays of Almathea transform into a display of relentless logistical efficiency. Great wooden crane arms creak and groan under massive loads as mountain-like stacks of rough burlap grain sacks are hoisted high above the stone piers and lowered deep into the dark, dry lower holds of the ships. Dockworkers sweat in the breeze, their backs bending under the continuous flow of food supplies.
Farther along the harbor road, perched on a rocky bluff overlooking the crowded bay, stands the Mercenary Guildhouse—a dark, heavily timbered hall with narrow windows and iron-studded doors. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of stale ale, pipe smoke, and wet leather.
Aldo sits at a scarred oak table near the back of the hall, his spine straight and his hands folded neatly over his knee. Across from him sits a grizzled Wanghai captain whose weathered skin is carved with deep salt-lines, alongside several veteran Ofliran pikemen commanders whose iron chestplates are scratched and dented from old campaigns.
"Five hundred men?" the Wanghai mercenary captain asks, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the stained wood. He reaches up with a calloused hand, scratching his scarred chin where a dark line cuts through his sparse beard. "We have three hundred displaced Gertrudian pikemen, eighty Wanghai crossbowmen, and a hundred and twenty free-company line infantry looking for contract work after the coastal skirmishes ended. But we don't march for copper."
Aldo reaches into his tunic, pulls out a heavy leather purse bulging with gold solidi, and slides it directly across the scarred oak table. The bag lands with a heavy, metallic clink that resonates sharply through the quiet corners of the hall.
"Half payment upfront in gold," Aldo says, his dark eyes unblinking, his gaze fixed straight into the mercenary captain's weathered face. "Full rations provided. Strict military discipline under my command. You board the ships tonight, and we sail at midnight."
The Wanghai captain stares at the leather purse for a second. He reaches out a thick, calloused palm, lifts the bag by its leather cords, and bounces it once in his grip to gauge its weight. A slow, yellow-toothed smile spreads across his scarred face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"For gold like this, kid commander," the captain rumbles, his laugh raspy and low in his chest, "my men will follow your galleons straight to the bottom of the ocean."
As they leave the guildhouse and descend the steep stone stairs leading back to the docks, Onaga hurries his steps to match Aldo's steady stride. His expression is tight with worry, his brow furrowed as he glances back toward the timber building.
"Aldo..." Onaga begins, his voice dropping to a cautious, hushed whisper so the surrounding guards cannot hear. "Should you really be hiring them? Remember what you told the Duke of Thromia back in northwest Heilop? You said clearly that you do not trust mercenaries under any circumstances."
Aldo keeps his gaze fixed ahead, his face impassive as his boots strike the stone steps in a steady, unhurried cadence.
"There are two things I need to clarify," Aldo responds calmly, his voice smooth and steady. "First, in a matter of long-term statecraft, yes. Mercenaries possess no loyalty to a realm or a throne; their allegiance evaporates the moment the coin runs dry."
He pauses at the landing, looking down at the swarming docks below before turning his dark eyes back to Onaga.
"Second... in case you need mercenaries immediately to survive, you need them."
Adelberd, walking beside them with his shoulder blades squared, turns his head toward the Wanghai captain and the Ofliran pikemen commanders who are following close behind, their heavy iron boots clattering against the stone steps.
"If we ever encounter mages..." Adelberd asks, his voice stiff and direct, "how do your men handle them on the battlefield?"
The mercenary commanders pause, looking at one another before bursting into a loud, coarse laugh that echoes off the stone walls of the alley. One of the Ofliran pikemen, a broad-shouldered man with a notched broadsword hanging from his belt, wipes a tear of amusement from his eye.
"You want advice on how to kill mages, boy?" the pikeman asks, his tone unsettlingly casual, his lips twisting into a dry smirk. "All you need is to distract them. Keep their attention right in front of them, and then hit them with a bullet or a blade on the other side of their head. Simple as that."
The Wanghai captain nods in agreement, crossing his arms over his leather brigandine.
"If they have a shield up," the captain adds casually, tapping his temple with one finger, "we hire another mage to neutralize it. If there's a whole group of them casting together? A group of light cavalry ambushes them from the flank. Brief, brutal, and professional."
Aldo adjusts his cloak and gestured toward the lower quays, where massive wooden barrels of freshwater, dark beer, and thick sacks of milled rye flour are being rolled down the wooden ramps toward the ships.
"Enough talking," Aldo commands smoothly. "Move to the piers. We assist with loading the rations of flour, water, and beer to the galleons immediately."
Down at the water's edge, the battle-hardened mercenaries begin hoisting heavy beer kegs and water casks onto their shoulders, working alongside the younger slave-soldiers. One old mercenary, his face covered in iron-gray stubble, leans against a barrel of flour, watching Aldo direct the placement of the cargo with cold, methodical efficiency.
Look at this kid... the old mercenary murmurs under his breath to his squadmate, shaking his head with a quiet scoff. Obsessed with flour, water, and beer before we even talk about battle plans. He actually knows what keeps a man standing in the mud. Even if he looks like a white sheep wandering straight into a forest full of wolves.
Nearby, a massive, bearded Ofliran mercenary laughs boisterously as he hauls a heavy crate. He steps over to Onaga and throws a thick, heavy arm over the younger boy's shoulders, pulling him sideways with a sudden crunch of armor.
Onaga gasps, his body flinching violently as his ledger nearly slips from his hands. His cheeks instantly flush bright red, his eyes widening in total surprise as he tries to pull back against the mercenary's overwhelming strength.
"Hey, little scribe!" the large mercenary laughs, pointing a thick thumb across the pier toward where Hano is leaning against a timber post, sourly shouting orders at a squad of teenagers. "Why do you and the rest of these kids follow that stoic little boy like he's a king? That guy Hano over there looks like he wants to die, and your commander looks more like a cold quartermaster counting beans than a proper military leader!"
Hano, hearing his name, scoffs sourly from across the pier, adjusting his spectacles with a dirty knuckle without pausing his shouting.
"He keeps the company alive!" Hano calls back dryly, his voice flat and cutting over the noise of the docks. "That's why! He gets the damn logistics right while you mercenaries just know how to drink!"
The large mercenary turns back to Onaga, grinning down at the blushing boy whose shoulders are still pinned beneath his heavy arm.
"And what about you, small one?" the mercenary chuckles, jostling Onaga slightly. "Why do you follow him?"
Onaga stammers, his face burning hot as his eyes dart nervously around the busy quay. He looks at his ledger, then toward Aldo, who is calmly reviewing a manifest without paying the slightest attention to the commotion.
"He... he is just our leader," Onaga mutters quickly, giving a vague, random answer as he squirms out from beneath the mercenary's arm.
The surrounding mercenaries break into a loud, booming chorus of laughter, slapping their knees as Onaga clutches his ledger tightly against his chest, his head ducked low and his blushing face burning as he walks as fast as his feet can carry him toward the safety of the gangplank.