The West Ward of Oakhaven was a place the sun forgot to visit. It was a labyrinth of narrow alleys, sagging timber houses, and the omnipresent, cloying scent of raw silk and cheap dye. Here, the "Imperial Glory" was just a distant rumor told by people who didn't have to worry about the price of a loaf of bread.
I pulled my hood lower, my boots squelching in the mud of the main thoroughfare. Beside me, Bastian looked like a man on a foreign planet. He had traded his royal silks for a sturdy wool cloak, but he still carried himself with a grace that shouted "Palace" to anyone with eyes.
"Why here, Elara?" Bastian whispered, dodging a bucket of slops thrown from a second-story window. "The merchants in the North Ward have the biggest warehouses. If I want a return on my gold, shouldn't I be talking to the people who already have money?"
"That's 'Old Money' thinking, Bastian," I said, stopping in front of a dilapidated workshop where the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a loom sounded like a tired heartbeat. "In a saturated market, 'Old Money' is stagnant. They want to keep the status quo. But the West Ward? This is an 'Emerging Market.' These people are hungry, they are skilled, and they are being crushed by the Empress's 'Equipment Tax.' If we provide the leverage, they will provide the growth."
I pushed open the door to the workshop. The air inside was thick with dust and the fine, floating fibers of silk. A dozen women sat at ancient wooden looms, their fingers moving with a speed that was almost supernatural, despite the dim light.
At the center stood a woman with hair the color of steel and eyes that had seen too many winters. This was Mother Gara, the unofficial "CEO" of the West Ward weavers.
"We don't want no trouble, Master," Gara said, her voice raspy from years of breathing silk dust. She didn't look up from her loom. "The tax collector was already here this morning. We have nothing left but the threads on our backs."
"I'm not a tax collector, Mother Gara," Bastian said, stepping forward. I had coached him on his "Pitch" all morning. "I'm an investor. And I believe your 'company' is undervalued."
Gara stopped her loom. The silence that followed was heavy with suspicion. "Investor? That's a fancy word for a loan shark. What's your interest rate, boy? Your soul or just your firstborn?"
I stepped forward, pulling a single gold sovereign from the pouch and placing it on her workbench. The light from a solitary candle caught the glint of the King's face on the coin.
"Zero interest for the first three months," I said, my voice clear and professional. "We provide the gold for you to buy raw silk from the Northern caravans. We provide the gold to repair these looms. In exchange, you give Prince Bastian twenty percent of your finished product to be sold at the 'Prince's Bazaar' in the Plaza."
Gara looked at the coin, then at me. "And what's the catch? Nobody gives gold for nothing in Oakhaven."
"The 'catch' is that you have to hire ten more girls from the neighborhood," I said. "We're not just buying silk, Gara. We're buying a workforce. We're creating a monopoly on West Ward textiles before the Crown Prince even realizes there's a market here."
I leaned in, my eyes locking onto hers. "In seven days, the King will judge the Princes. If Bastian wins, the Equipment Tax is abolished. That's your 'ROI.' Do we have a deal?"
Gara looked at the other women. I saw the spark of hope—the most dangerous and powerful commodity in the world. She reached out and snatched the coin.
"Deal," she whispered.
For the next six hours, we didn't act like royals. We acted like a "Startup Team." We went from workshop to workshop, workshop to tannery, tannery to smithy. By the time the moon rose, Bastian's ten thousand gold was gone—distributed in small, strategic "Micro-Grants" across the entire West Ward.
As we walked back toward the palace, Bastian looked at his empty pouch, then at his stained hands. He looked exhausted, but for the first time, he didn't look like he wanted a drink.
"They looked at me like I was a person, Elara," he said, his voice quiet. "Not a Prince to be feared, or a 'Trash Prince' to be mocked. They looked at me like... like a partner."
"That's called 'Brand Loyalty,' Bastian," I said, leaning against a stone wall to catch my breath. "You didn't just spend gold. You bought an army of people who now have a vested interest in your success. If you lose this trial, they lose their future. That's the most powerful protection you can have."
"Is that why you do it?" Bastian asked, stepping closer. The street was empty, the only sound the distant tolling of the Temple bells. "Is everything just a 'Brand' or an 'Investment' to you? Even this? Even us?"
I felt the familiar wall of my corporate persona tremble. I looked at him—the smudge of grease on his cheek, the way his hair was windswept, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered in this godforsaken city.
"In my world, Bastian, 'Us' is a high-risk venture," I whispered. "And I've never been good at diversifying my heart."
He reached out, his hand cupping my jaw. His skin was warm, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. The air between us felt charged with a "Market Volatility" I couldn't control.
"Then let's take the risk," he murmured.
But before his lips could touch mine, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the direction of Mother Gara's workshop.
A thick, oily smoke began to rise over the rooftops of the West Ward.
"The Crown Prince," I hissed, my romantic feelings instantly replaced by a cold, sharp fury. "He's not trying to compete with our market. He's trying to 'Liquidate' our assets."
"Fire!" Bastian roared, drawing his sword.
We ran back toward the flames. The Trial wasn't just about gold anymore. It was about survival.