"Another legionnaire tried to come through the front gate, Chancellor. He carried a Consortium coin badge that was almost perfect. That makes the fifth attempt this week."

  Tomas's brow tightened. This was troubling but not unexpected. Ever since Dane warned him that the Legion might be turning hostile, every past interaction with them carried a new uneasiness.

  "That's fine," he said at last. "As long as we keep scanning with Daedala's tools, they won't slip through."

  "Sir… with respect," the guard captain ventured, "we should consider letting them in. We need money; the soldiers' salaries are already paltry, and the Legion used to fill nearly three-quarters of our dungeon slots."

  "We are in active war with the Legion," Tomas replied, voice quiet but unyielding. "If even one of them gets inside, we have no idea what havoc they might cause. Place two more delvers at each guard post. You're dismissed."

  The captain nodded, but Tomas caught it; perhaps it was just exhaustion in the man's eye. But the look he had was dangerously close to the defiance he used to see in the militia when he first took over. Either way, it would need watching.

  The city was a powder keg lately. With the barricades raised and travel restricted, Chronowell's citizens were restless, too many remembering the old days when the elves would hammer the fifth floor with relentless assaults. This was almost worse; the people had all of the frustration with none of the enemy to blame.

  He didn't have enough informants to track every guard whose conscience was drifting. Perhaps the College of Magi could spare an enchanter—someone versed in shade magic or curses.

  "Chancellor," another guard called from the doorway, "members of the Machine God faction and several Consortium merchants request an audience."

  "Give me a moment," Tomas said. "I need to finish this paperwork first."

  He let out a long, weary breath. When he'd first been given the title of Chancellor, he'd felt a surge of pride. Second-most-important man in Chronowell, and with Dane gone so often, effectively the acting Baron. But the shine had worn off quickly. Power carried chains, and every week they seemed to grow heavier.

  Thankfully, Louis, the minotaur Dane, had brought back from the Beast Tide, had turned out to be more bureaucrat than bruiser. Tomas had delegated more and more to him, and a small circle of trusted aides had begun to form. He wished Amelia or Jason could have stepped into roles within the city, but after the ordeal on the 50th floor, neither seemed to have room in their hearts for other people.

  Tomas knew the story, but seeing the aftermath firsthand… that was different.

  He drew a document from the stack: a proposal from the College of Magi. The headmaster's seat had been empty for too long, but they had finally chosen a candidate.

  Rachel Lindstrom.

  A former slave freed from the 20th floor, with a remarkable record for her resilience to temporal distortion. She was fifty-five years old by system time, though her recent racial evolution had her looking scarcely into her thirties. Tomas skimmed her credentials absentmindedly; the city needed someone in the role, and she seemed as capable as anyone.

  He picked up the stamp marked APPROVED and pressed it into the corner.

  In truth, he didn't care who took the job. The position had remained vacant far too long, and it would be a relief to let someone else handle the endless ceremonies and obligations that accompanied higher education.

  A sound interrupted his thought. The door swung open without a knock.

  Two representatives entered as if they owned the building, one was draped in the chrome-filigree robes of the Machine God faction, the other a Consortium merchant whose gold rings clicked together with every swaggering step. Neither bowed nor waited to be acknowledged. They sat in the chairs across from Tomas's desk as though they'd paid for them.

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  "Chancellor," the merchant began, crossing one leg over the other, "we're here to offer… support."

  The Machine God priest nodded, eyes gleaming with mechanical pupils. "Your champion has lost his last two matches. Many believe your city to be a place of weaklings.”

  Tomas didn't answer. He kept stamping documents, finishing the page he was on. The silence forced them to keep talking.

  "You need Dane properly augmented," the merchant pressed. "We can provide enhancements. Sure, they may be illegal in some places, yes, but they are highly effective. We have strength boosters, reflex nodes, and mana-channel conduits. With our backing, he'll stop losing."

  The Machine God representative slid a metal case onto Tomas's desk. Its hinges gleamed. "A full augment kit. Fifteen thousand gold. And that's our discounted rate."

  Tomas finally looked up. Fifteen thousand gold. They said the large sum, as if they were offering charity.

  The priest leaned back, who sounded remarkably human for one so augmented. "Naturally, all we ask for in return is expanded access to your dungeon, our delvers feel… restricted. And perhaps a reduction in tariffs on our imports. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

  Tomas set his stamp down.

  "And if we're not interested?" he asked.

  The merchant gave a thin smile. "Chancellor, let's not pretend Chronowell can stand on its own. Without external backing, you'll run yourself dry. Your dungeon is impressive, yes, but it isn't enough to keep this city afloat forever.”

  The Machine God priest folded his hands. "Without our tech, your champion will keep losing."

  Still, Tomas didn't react. He knew that there was nothing an augment could grant that would match Dane's raw potential. If the Baron so desired, he could take all of the power from every citizen of Chronowell and ascend to godhood. Daedala had spoken at length about how he controlled the percentages of cosmic energy that flowed into each person under the Earthbound System.

  He simply leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of their arrogance settle over the room.

  Then quietly he laughed.

  Not a wild laugh. There was no mockery in his expression. It was just a single, genuine laugh of disbelief.

  The two men stiffened.

  Tomas shook his head. "Gentlemen… Chronowell is a self-contained ecosystem. We don't need anything from the outside world."

  They blinked, caught off guard.

  He continued, tone polite but sharpened. "If we stopped trade tomorrow, do you know what would happen? You would have to brave the sands again. Carrying your wares across monster territory. You'd lose caravans by the dozen. Maybe the hundreds."

  The merchant opened his mouth, but Tomas didn't give him the chance.

  "You rely on our dungeon. Our monsters are the safest way to gain EXP. Our smiths are more talented. Our alchemists make a potion that is four times more powerful than anything you have brought. And our delvers often report saving entire parties because they get overconfident."

  His voice hardened. "You rely on us. Not the other way around."

  The priest's jaw tightened. "Chancellor, be reasonable. You're not as independent as you think."

  Tomas didn't blink. "There is nothing you can offer that we don't already have a superior version of."

  That did it. The merchant stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. "You think you can insult us without consequence?"

  The Machine God priest rose as well, mana conduits lighting along his arms. "You don't understand what you're refusing."

  Tomas snapped his fingers, and a distortion rippled through the air beside him. It was Daedala's magic compressing space into a single, violent pulse.

  A werewolf materialized in the center of the room. It was almost as tall as the ceiling, and a B rank aura dripped off of it nearly the same way that slobber came off of its fangs. Its fur bristled with dark mana, and its eyes glowed silver like molten steel.

  Both men froze. The Machine God priest's augment flickered out instantly. The merchant stumbled backward, hand clamped over his mouth. One of them whispered something that sounded a lot like a prayer.

  Tomas didn't even look at the beast.

  "Daedala," he said calmly, "would you kindly show our guests the door?"

  The werewolf released a low growl, so deep it rattled the desk. Both men practically vaulted out of the room, tripping over each other, scrambling for the exit. The door slammed behind them with a metallic crack.

  With a nod from Tomas, the werewolf faded into thin air, the mana distortion dissolving like smoke.

  Tomas exhaled once. This time, not in exhaustion but because he could finally be rid of the two annoying men.

  "Louis," he called.

  The minotaur stepped in a moment later, carrying a ledger and looking mildly confused. "Everything alright, Chancellor?"

  "Perfect," Tomas said. "Draft a proclamation."

  Louis perked up, ears angling toward him.

  "Effective immediately," Tomas said, "heavy tariffs on the Machine God faction and the Consortium. Raise their merchant fees to the maximum allowed by the city charter."

  Louis's brows rose. "That… will make them furious."

  "Good," Tomas said.

  "And one more thing," he added. "Reduce their dungeon entry level. No more access for those above level 50."

  Louis let out a low whistle. "They're going to riot."

  Tomas picked up his stamp again and pressed it onto a fresh sheet.

  "No... I suspect that they will return with an amended offer and an apology. Men like those have no shame or honor."