The Gilded Veins of Fortune part 2

Return to Morra
When I brought it to Morra, he didn’t ask how deep I’d gone. He didn’t even look at me — just at the parchment. The moment he saw the seal, all the color drained from his face.

“That’s not a contract,” he whispered. “That’s a death sentence.”

He locked the door, lowered the blinds, and spoke so softly I almost missed it.

“If the Inquisition finds this, the Consortium burns. You, me, Seymor — all of us. This ends here.”

He took the page from me with trembling hands, careful not to touch the ink itself.

“You’ve seen how easily gold blinds men. Now imagine what it does when it listens to whispers from Hell.”

He told me to say nothing — not a word to anyone. I nodded. I didn’t need convincing.

Resolution
Morra burned the fragment right there in the brazier. The flame hissed blue, then black. The room filled with the smell of ash and something older, fouler.

When it was done, he handed me a small golden seal — the emblem of the Consortium.

“For discretion,” he said. “And for loyalty, if you still have any left.”

He never mentioned Seymor again. Not that he needed to. The next morning, the Guild Master’s office was closed “for audit.” No one asked questions.

I still hear that paper thing’s voice sometimes — whispering in the back of my head, reciting ledgers written in fire.

But gold spends easily, and silence even more so.

Gold Runs Red
Dalen Morra didn’t look up when I entered. His office reeked of burnt wax and sleepless nights — ledgers stacked like barricades, shutters drawn tight as if light itself had become an enemy.

“He’s running,” Morra said. “Seymor. The bastard’s taking what’s left of the infernal contract and fleeing north.”

I didn’t ask how he knew. In Gallapa, the walls have ears — most of them paid in gold.

“The ship’s called Golden Dawn. If he reaches open sea, the truth drowns with him. Bring it back — or bring back his corpse.”

He pressed a merchant’s seal into my hand, its edges still warm from his palm. “For access,” he said. “And because you’ll need a friend to open any door in this city tonight.”

When I stepped outside, dawn hadn’t come yet — but the air smelled of endings.

The Docks of Gallapa
The harbor was a maze of fog and whispers. Lanterns swung from masts like dying stars, their reflections breaking on black water. I moved through the crowd — sailors, stevedores, half-drunk merchants — all pretending not to see the cloaked figure boarding the Golden Dawn.

Seymor. Even from afar, I could see the nervous twitch of his gloved hands, the way he looked over his shoulder at shadows that weren’t there.

The Dockmaster met my eye and looked away quickly. A few coins later, his tongue loosened.

“Cabin below the aft deck,” he muttered. “And… best be quick. The tide’s not the only thing leaving tonight.”

I didn’t wait for more. The guards near the gangplank shifted uneasily when I showed them Morra’s seal. They stepped aside without a word.

The wood creaked underfoot as I climbed aboard. The sea whispered beneath the hull — patient, waiting.

The Golden Dawn
Below deck smelled of salt, tar, and something fouler — the metallic tang of burning ink. I followed the glow seeping from under a locked door, a faint red pulse like a heartbeat.

When I pushed it open, Seymor turned sharply, one hand on a sealed chest that throbbed with crimson light. His eyes were fever-bright.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice shaking. “Without this, the guild will collapse. I’ve seen what’s coming — famine, ruin, a kingdom drowning in its own greed. This deal was supposed to save us.”

The light from the chest danced across his face — and for a moment, I thought I saw something behind his reflection. Something smiling.

“You traded lives for ledgers,” I said.

He flinched. “I bought survival! Every coin spent keeps another merchant afloat, another city fed! You think the Inquisition cares about balance sheets?”

He reached for the lock. I drew my blade.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“You can’t stop it,” he whispered. “It’s already written.”

The Ashen Broker’s Echo
The lock snapped. The chest screamed.

Light exploded — molten gold and black smoke twisting into a shape that shouldn’t exist. It towered over us, its body made of burning chains and fluttering coins, its face an empty mask engraved with numbers.

“A bargain undone,” it shrieked. “Debt unpaid.”

The Echo lashed out — coins slicing the air like razors. The deck buckled under its weight. Seymor stumbled back, clutching his arm where golden fire had burned through flesh and silk.

I rolled beneath a swinging chain and drove my sword into its core. The metal hissed. The demon laughed — a chorus of clinking coins — before slamming me against the bulkhead.

The air filled with gold dust and fire. Every breath tasted like metal.

“Seymor!” I shouted. “Burn it — finish the deal!”

He hesitated — then, with shaking hands, grabbed the remaining pages from the chest. He whispered a word I didn’t know.

The papers ignited — crimson flames devouring the script.

The Echo howled, collapsing inward as if the fire ate its soul. Its chains snapped, its body unraveling into molten gold that dripped across the floorboards.

When the light faded, only ash and coins remained.

Seymor’s End
Seymor was on his knees, coughing smoke. His gloves were burned away, fingers blistered and blackened.

“Tell them… tell them I tried,” he rasped.

He held a coin between his fingers — once gold, now turned obsidian.

“All I wanted… was to keep the guild alive.”

Then his hand slipped, and the sea took him — dragging the coin and the man both into the dark.

I stood there as the ship listed, creaking mournfully toward the pier, smoke curling from its sails like incense over a grave.

When I found the last fragment of the contract in the debris, it was still warm. The words had burned away, leaving only one mark — the faint impression of a sigil I’d seen before. The Broker’s seal.

I pocketed it and left the ship to sink.

Return to Morra
Morra was waiting when I returned. He didn’t ask for details — just reached for the fragment with gloved hands and placed it into a steel chest lined with silver. The lock clicked shut with a sound that felt final.

“It’s done, then?”

I nodded.

“Good,” he said softly. “Then we can begin again. Without lies. Without blood.”

He paused, staring into the brazier’s dying coals.

“Gold runs red in the end,” he murmured. “But maybe we can wash it clean.”

He handed me a folded robe — the mark of a Guild Associate — and the Master Trader’s Seal, its edges engraved with the guild’s motto: Profit through Honor.

“Wear it well,” Morra said. “And remember — honesty costs more than gold.”

I left his office as dawn broke over Gallapa, the city painted in shades of smoke and promise.

The harbor was quiet now. The Golden Dawn lay half-sunk in the mist, a monument to greed and guilt. The waves carried away the last of the ash.

Some debts, I thought, can’t be paid with coin.

Epilogue
In the weeks that followed, the Gilded Consortium quietly rewrote its ledgers and buried its ghosts. Morra assumed control “temporarily,” though everyone knew he was the only man left who could lead.

The demon contracts were sealed in silver, and the archives beneath the guild locked away — not destroyed, merely contained. Because in Gallapa, nothing is ever truly erased.

Now, when I walk through the markets, traders nod with quiet gratitude.

“You’re the one who saved our name,” they whisper. “The one who burned the gold that bled.”

I just smile. Because I know the truth.

Gold always runs red — and some stains never wash off.

Cinders of Cindar’s Rest
The morning sun had barely cut through Gallapa’s fog when Dalen Morra summoned me. This time, I wasn’t alone. Two caravan guards — sturdy, quiet men — waited near the door, and an Imperial Harbor Guard sergeant stood with arms folded, his uniform smelling faintly of seawater and oil.

Morra gestured at us all as if we were tools laid neatly on a table.

“Cindar’s Rest is attracting scavengers,” he said. “Some are opportunists. Some are surviving pirates. None have legal claim to anything on that island.”

He tapped a ledger with his knuckles.

“We have reports of Consortium-marked crates resurfacing in the black markets. The Empire wants the island cleared, and the guild wants its property back. This is a joint task.”

The sergeant nodded sharply. “Any armed looters will be apprehended. Survivors of Braska Carnege’s crew are to be treated as pirates — meaning arrested for execution. We’re not here to play judge. Just to bring them in.”

My role was simple: identify Consortium goods and ensure proper recovery. A fair job, and one that didn’t demand heroics — only competence.

We set sail within the hour.

Landfall on Cindar’s Rest
The island looked even smaller in daylight, a skeleton stripped bare by tide and fire. The ruins of the pirate camp lay scattered across the blackened sand — half-burnt cabins, fallen masts, shattered crates.

The moment our skiff scraped the shore, the Harbor Guard fanned out in formation.

“Two forward, one flank,” the sergeant ordered. “If they’re armed, don’t hesitate.”

I wasn’t leading this expedition. I was simply one part of it — and that, frankly, felt appropriate.

Scavengers watched us from behind broken hulls. Some ran at the sight of uniforms. Others froze, weighing their chances.

None liked what they saw.

The Encounter with Scavengers
A group of five cornered themselves near a collapsed watchtower. They were frightened, dirty, and visibly armed. Not pirates — just desperate men.

The sergeant kept his voice level. “Drop your weapons and surrender. Attempt resistance and you will be treated as pirates.”

One of them — tall, wild-eyed — raised a rusted cutlass. “Can’t go back to prison,” he muttered.

He charged. The guards reacted instantly.

Steel clashed, shouts echoed, and sand flew. One scavenger was cut down outright. Two were wounded and quickly subdued. The last two dropped their weapons and surrendered once they realized the odds.

It wasn’t glorious. It wasn’t heroic. It was just… necessary.

Law doesn’t negotiate with blades.

The wounded were bound. The dead were left for retrieval later. Our duty was still ahead.

The Hidden Cache
The ruins of the lighthouse hadn’t changed, though the smell of burnt timbers felt heavier without fog to hide it.

One of the caravan guards pried aside a fallen beam, revealing a stack of weathered crates with the Gilded Consortium seal. I knelt beside them, brushing dust away.

“These are real,” I said. “Guild-marked. At least a few years old, maybe more.”

The sergeant made notes. “These go back with us. No exceptions.”

We cracked open the crates:
- Valerian silks, remarkably well preserved
- Sealed sacks of guild-verified coins
- Ledgers documenting older trade routes

Nothing magical. Nothing cursed. Just valuable property lost to piracy and long overdue for recovery.

Before we finished loading them onto the skiff, one of the guards called out:
“Movement! Three coming down from the ridge!”

The Last Pirates
They were neither scavengers nor opportunists.

These were pirates — lean, scarred men with the look of animals backed into their last corner. They stopped several paces away, recognizing the uniforms. One spat blood into the sand.

“This is our haul,” he growled. “We bled for this island.”

The sergeant stepped forward.
“You are survivors of Braska Carnege’s crew. That makes you pirates. Under imperial law, you surrender or die. Those are your choices.”

One pirate shook his head. “Then we’ll die fighting.”

They charged.

The fight was brief and brutal. The pirates fought with the desperation of doomed men, but they were half-starved and poorly armed. The Harbor Guard cut them down with discipline and training.

Two died where they fell.

The last collapsed to his knees, bleeding out. He tried to speak, but only coughed up blood.

The sergeant closed the man’s eyes. “We’ll report it as death from wounds taken during lawful arrest.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Some endings were already written the moment Braska signed his first contract.

Return to Gallapa
We returned with the crates secured, the ledgers sealed, and the prisoners tied to the aft bench. The surviving scavengers were handed over to the Harbor Court. They’d likely face long sentences — but not the execution reserved for pirates.

The dead, both pirate and scavenger, would be accounted for.

Imperial order is built on records, not sentiment.

Dalen Morra met us at the docks. He surveyed the crates with a slow nod, relief softening his usually sharp expression.

“You did well,” he said. “All of you.”

He ordered clerks to take inventory, then pulled me aside.

“These ledgers…” He tapped a crate lid. “…they belong in honest history, not at the bottom of the sea.”

He handed me a sealed pouch — fair payment.

“And one more thing,” he said quietly. “You’re no lone hero. Remember that. We stand because many hands hold the line, not one.”

For once, I agreed wholeheartedly.

As I left the docks, the wind carried the faint scent of burnt wood. Cindar’s Rest may have been cleared, but some islands never truly stop sinking.