Chapter 547

“Explain,” he said.

Rathen’s gaze flicked toward the deck, where some of the younger recruits were moving around with fresh confidence, bandaged, bruised, and still managing to look proud. One of them had already been showing off, pressing his palm to a friend’s cut forearm and pushing mana through in an imitation of Healing Touch.

It worked.

But it had worked enough that Rathen had noticed.

“I saw the kids using them,” Rathen said. “Not just as a symbol. As a tool.”

He hesitated like he hated admitting it.

“I want that kind of power.”

Ludger’s expression stayed calm. “Power costs.”

Rathen nodded. “That’s why we’re talking.”

He lowered his voice. “Specifically… I want your runic enchantments in bracers for my people. A limited number. Enough for ship crews. Enough for rotations. Enough that when someone gets cut open by a feather or bitten by something that doesn’t care, we don’t have to pray if a healer isn’t nearby.”

There it was. Not greed for silk. Not politics. Fear with a ledger attached.

“And healing,” Rathen added, watching Ludger closely, “is the big one. Healing Touch through the bracers. I saw it. I know it’s possible.”

Ludger leaned back slightly, letting the wind touch his face while he thought. If Rathen wanted labyrinth rights, that was a negotiation with knives hidden under the table.

If Rathen wanted

healing bracers

, that was worse.

Because healing wasn’t just utility. Healing was control.

It meant fewer deaths. More loyalty. Less dependence on healers. It meant soldiers could fight longer. Crews could push harder. Merchants could risk more. It meant power, distributed. And distributed power had consequences.

“You saw children force mana through a bracer, but they can also use without it,” Ludger said. “That’s not the same as a rune circuit.”

Rathen’s mouth tightened. “But you could make it stable.”

“I can,” Ludger agreed.

He didn’t deny what he was.

Then he added, blunt and simple: “Not for free.”

Rathen nodded again, like he’d already accepted that. “Name it.”

Ludger’s eyes slid to the ledger. “First, we settle the expedition costs cleanly.”

“Second is the bracers,” Rathen cut in, impatient.

Ludger let the interruption pass. He’d dealt with worse.

“Second is the bracers,” Ludger confirmed. “If I give you runic access, I decide the limits. Number. Function. Maintenance.”

Rathen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re afraid I’ll copy them.”

“I’m afraid you’ll

sell

them,” Ludger said, voice flat.

Rathen didn’t deny it. That was also an answer.

Ludger continued. “Healing Touch through a bracer isn’t a spell you ‘have.’ It’s a channel. A rune that shapes mana flow. If you give it to someone with enough mana and no restraint, they’ll burn through their own core trying to play saint.”

Rathen grimaced. “So you’d… restrict it.”

“Yes,” Ludger said.

Rathen frowned. “That reduces value.”

“It reduces corpses,” Ludger replied. “Pick one.”

The wind tugged at Rathen’s coat. He stared out at the water for a moment, jaw working. Then he looked back at Ludger.

“How many?” he asked.

“I’ll send one for each Ironhand crew member that was used in this expedition,” Ludger said. “Not for your whole operation. Just the ones who were here. The ones who bled with us.”

Rathen’s eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise slipping through his practiced mask.

“Ludger… ” he started, then stopped, as if the words didn’t come easily when they weren’t bargaining.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

Then he cleared his throat and forced them out anyway.

“Thank you,” Rathen said.

Ludger accepted it with a small nod, like thanks were just another part of the transaction.

Rathen’s gaze slid to Ludger’s wrist, to the bracer there, to the idea of a tool that could keep a man alive long enough to see shore again.

“Each one of those,” Rathen said quietly, “should be worth a gold coin per use.”

Viola wasn’t there to scoff, but Ludger could still hear her voice in his head:

You merchants are sick.

Rathen wasn’t wrong, though. Not in a world where healing decided who lived long enough to matter.

“If they have the same effect as you using them,” Rathen continued, eyes sharp, already calculating, “then that’s a fortune. Even with repairs.”

Ludger’s expression didn’t change. “They’ll have the same effect

pattern

,” he corrected. “Not the same efficiency. Not everyone have the same experience handling mana control.”

Rathen’s brow furrowed.

“The rune will do what it’s built to do,” Ludger said. “But it will cost mana. A lot. More than a trained healer using good technique.”

Rathen shrugged like mana was just another expense, not something that could leave a man shaking and hollow.

“Mana is cheaper than coffins,” he said.

Ludger’s mouth twitched, almost amusement, almost irritation.

“True,” he replied.

He pushed back from the table. “I’ll draft the rune design after we dock. Raukor forges the bases. I inlay the circuits.”

Rathen nodded immediately, already halfway to the next problem. But before Ludger walked away, Rathen spoke again, quieter.

“And the repairs?”

Ludger glanced back over his shoulder.

“You bring them to me,” he said. “Or you bring them to someone I approve of. If you let a random runesmith carve into my work, you’ll get a bracer that heals for one use… and kills on the second. I will repair once, the other times will cost money.”

Rathen swallowed, then gave a stiff nod.

“Understood.”

Ludger walked off into the morning wind, leaving Rathen staring at the sea with the satisfied look of a man who’d just bought a piece of power.

And the uneasy look of a man who knew power always came with a leash attached.

Ludger walked away from the table and let the wind cool the heat that always built behind his eyes after negotiations. Not anger.

He paused near the stacked silk, hands behind his head, watching sailors tighten ropes and check knots like their lives depended on them. They did.

His thoughts drifted, as they always did, toward systems. Toward leverage. Toward the kind of income that didn’t require bleeding for every coin.

Repairs.

Runic equipment didn’t break like normal gear. It degraded. Quietly. Like a lie that got worse every time it was repeated. Channels scorched. Inlays warped. Mana paths developed hairline fractures that turned “works fine” into “explodes in your face” over the span of a single bad fight.

And everyone with money wanted runes now. Everyone with influence wanted what they didn’t understand. Which meant everyone would eventually need someone to fix their toys. Ludger’s mouth twitched faintly.

I could make a business out of this.

Not selling enchantments, that drew attention, politics, envy. But repairs? Repairs were

maintenance

. Repairs were respectable. Repairs were something even nobles admitted they needed without feeling like they were begging.

A constant flow of work. A constant flow of coin. A constant flow of people coming to

his

doorstep.

He pictured it automatically: a workshop in Lionfang, stone-built and rune-lit, with a counter, a waiting bench, and a line of impatient travelers clutching broken bracers, cracked mana lamps, bent ward plates.

Cash up front. Materials paid by the client. A repair fee scaled by complexity. It would be absurdly profitable. It would also be a waste of his time. Ludger exhaled through his nose and looked out over the water, eyes narrowing slightly.

Better to teach it to someone else.

Not because he couldn’t do it, because he could. Because he’d do it too well, and suddenly he’d be the only person in the region who could keep half the coast’s runic gear from falling apart.

That was a trap disguised as opportunity. But if the repair shop belonged to the Lionsguard… Then it wasn’t Ludger’s personal burden. It was guild infrastructure. A service. A gate. A funnel.

It would pull customers into Lionfang the same way the labyrinth pulled delvers: with greed and need. People would come to repair gear, and while they waited they’d buy food, hire escorts, sign contracts, recruit trainees, pay taxes, spend coin in town.

Profit stacked on profit. And it wasn’t just money. It was influence.

If every serious fighter and merchant on the frontier relied on a Lionsguard-run shop to keep their runes functioning, then the Lionsguard didn’t just control roads and contracts.

They controlled

reliability

.

Ludger’s eyes half-lidded as the thought settled into place like a stone sliding into a wall.

Another pillar.

Another way to grow Lionfang without swinging a sword. He glanced toward the crew, toward the new members, toward the bracers Raukor had forged and the rune grooves waiting for his hand.

He’d need someone with steady mana control. Someone patient. Someone who wouldn’t sell the technique to the first noble who smiled. Someone he could train.

Ludger’s gaze drifted, already sifting through names like tools. Then he turned back toward the bow of the ship, the wind tugging at his cloak. A small, grim satisfaction warmed his chest.

If the Empire wanted to sit on secrets and do nothing… fine. He’d build a town that made their “nothing” irrelevant. One repair at a time.

By the time the sun started sliding toward the horizon again, the port town came into view again.

It looked smaller than Ludger remembered. Not because it had changed, because

they

had. A few days ago, it had been a departure point. Now it was a finish line that didn’t feel real until the hull scraped the familiar dock and the ropes were thrown with practiced hands.

The ship settled with a long, tired creak. The mission was over. All that was left was the part nobody liked admitting still counted as work. Getting home.

They disembarked in a controlled wave, injured first, cargo teams next, then the rest. Rathen’s people handled the silk like it was glass and gold at the same time, careful not to snag it on splinters or impatient elbows.

Ludger stepped onto the dock and scanned the yard beyond the warehouses. There. Exactly where he’d left them.

The wagons sat in the same spot, wheels chocked, covers tied down tight. The runic carriage, rune-metal and stubborn design, was parked beside them like a loyal beast that had never learned the concept of wandering off.

No tampering. No missing parts. No idiots trying to “test” it.

Good. He turned to the group, letting his gaze pass over faces that were sunburned, bruised, and still carrying that half-wild look people got after their first real fight.

“It’s time to go home,” Ludger said.

A chorus of mixed reactions answered him.

Some nodded immediately, relief sharp and obvious.

Others, especially the newer members, made pained noises like they’d been asked to do another night assault.

“The sooner we return,” he said evenly, “the sooner you receive your payment.”

The effect was immediate. Heads snapped up. Eyes sharpened. The groaning died as if someone had cut it off with a knife. For a heartbeat, they looked almost confused, like the idea had slipped their minds entirely.

Because it had.

They’d been walking around wearing fresh bracers like trophies, like proof they mattered now. Somewhere along the way, a chunk of their brains had decided that the bracers

were

the reward.

Payment in pride. Payment in belonging. Ludger watched the realization ripple through the group.

Coins. Actual coins. Rations. Potions. Gear. The kind of payment that turned “I survived” into “I can build something with this.”

Excitement surged like someone had lit a fire under them. One of the new members straightened so fast his bandage tugged and he winced, then grinned anyway.

“Wait—

we’re getting paid paid?

” someone blurted.

Viola rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Rathen’s crew exchanged amused looks. They’d seen it before: the way tired people magically found energy when money was mentioned.

They couldn’t wait to go back.

Ludger turned slightly toward the runic carriage, watching as hands rushed to secure straps and check harnesses without being told twice.

Too easy,

he thought.

He kept his face neutral, because a leader didn’t smile when he’d just proven how predictable people were. But inside, the dry satisfaction settled in.

They were exhausted. They were battered. They were still half afraid of the dark. And all it took was one sentence to turn them into a disciplined march again. Ludger lifted his hand.

“Load up,” he said.

And they moved. Quickly. Happily. Like home was already in sight.

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