Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 112: Chapter 107: The Guild’s Arrogance

Location: Oldstrand - Merchants’ Guild Hall

Time: Day 523 | Telia: Day 13 (afternoon)

Realm: Telia (Mission World)

The Merchants’ Guild Hall rose before them like a monument to wealth—massive marble columns supporting a structure that could’ve housed half of Tardide’s population. Gold leaf traced intricate patterns across the entrance, and guards in polished armor stood at attention, their weapons gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Excessive, Jayde thought, her Federation training automatically cataloging the building’s defensive positions. Three visible guards, probably six more inside. Standard wealthy target protection.

(It’s so big. So fancy.) Jade voice surfaced, awed despite herself. (Master Whitestone’s entire forge could fit in just the entrance.)

Elder Ryunzo straightened his worn brown robes, clearly uncomfortable. His weathered hands smoothed fabric that had been patched twice, and Jayde noticed how he avoided looking directly at the opulent entrance.

”Remember,” he said quietly, ”we’re here to negotiate charcoal sales. Nothing more. Be respectful, but don’t—”

”Don’t let them walk over us,” Jayde finished. ”I understand, Elder.”

Master Whitestone grunted, adjusting the basket of charcoal samples he carried. The blacksmith’s massive frame looked out of place against the refined marble, his work-scarred hands and soot-stained tunic marking him as clearly as a brand.

They climbed the steps, and the guards’ eyes tracked them with barely concealed disdain. One wrinkled his nose as they passed.

Noted, Jayde thought coldly. Class prejudice endemic to the wealthy district.

The reception hall opened before them—vast, echoing, filled with the murmur of dozens of conversations. Merchants in silk robes haggled with traders, clerks scurried between offices carrying ledgers and contracts, and the air smelled of expensive incense and old money.

Elder Ryunzo approached a tall counter where a young man sat, maybe twenty, with perfectly styled hair and clothes that probably cost more than the Elder’s entire wardrobe.

”Good afternoon,” Elder Ryunzo said politely. ”I seek an audience with High Merchant Creseul. I have business to discuss regarding a valuable trade commodity.”

The clerk looked up slowly, his gaze traveling from Elder Ryunzo’s patched robes to Master Whitestone’s soot-stained tunic to Jayde’s worn leather armor. His lip curled.

”High Merchant Creseul doesn’t meet with...” He paused, his sneer deepening. ”...country folk.”

Hostile reception, Jayde’s tactical voice noted. Typical wealth-based discrimination.

Elder Ryunzo’s face remained calm, but Jayde saw the tightening around his eyes. ”I assure you, our business is legitimate and potentially very profitable for the Guild. If you could just inform him—”

”I said no.” The clerk turned back to his ledger. ”Now move along before I call the guards.”

(He’s being so mean. Elder Ryunzo is trying so hard.)

Master Whitestone’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet. Elder Ryunzo hesitated, then reached into his robe and withdrew a small leather pouch. The clink of coins was soft but unmistakable.

He slid it across the counter.

The clerk’s eyes flicked to the pouch, then around the hall. His hand snaked out, and the pouch disappeared into his sleeve so fast Jayde almost missed it.

”Wait here,” he said, his tone barely less contemptuous. He stood and disappeared through a side door.

Just spent probably a month’s savings for a maybe, Jayde thought, her Federation sense of injustice flaring. Corruption built into every level. Typical feudal structure.

Elder Ryunzo gestured toward a row of benches along the wall—the kind meant for servants and petitioners. ”Let’s sit.”

They settled onto the hard wooden benches. Around them, wealthy merchants lounged on padded couches, sipped wine from crystal glasses, and talked loudly about their latest acquisitions.

”Twenty hectares in the southern valley,” one fat merchant bragged. ”The peasants there barely eat, so the land was cheap.”

His companion laughed. ”Smart. Starving farmers work harder.”

Jayde’s fingers curled into fists.

(They’re talking about people starving like it’s funny.)

Document it, her Federation voice said coldly. Remember every face.

Minutes crawled by. Ten. Fifteen.

Then the clerk returned. ”High Merchant Creseul will see you now. Just you,” he said, looking at Elder Ryunzo. ”Your... companions can wait here.”

Elder Ryunzo glanced at Jayde and Master Whitestone. ”I’ll be back soon. Don’t wander off.”

”We’ll be fine, Elder,” Jayde said.

The old man followed the clerk through a side corridor, carrying the basket of charcoal samples with him.

Jayde and Master Whitestone sat in silence for a moment.

”This place,” Master Whitestone muttered, ”smells like money and rot.”

”Accurate assessment.”

More minutes passed. Twenty. Twenty-five.

Master Whitestone stood suddenly, his massive frame unfolding. ”I can’t sit still any longer. Going to look around.”

”Don’t go far,” Jayde cautioned, echoing Elder Ryunzo’s earlier words.

The blacksmith grunted and headed toward a side area where display cases showed various trade goods—expensive silks, rare spices, ornate weapons.

Jayde stayed on the bench, her tactical mind cataloging everything. Guard positions. Exit routes. Wealth distribution patterns among the crowd.

Feudal society. Extreme inequality. Systemic corruption. Classic pre-revolution conditions.

(I hate places like this. Everyone’s so mean.)

Thirty minutes.

Then Elder Ryunzo returned.

Jayde knew immediately something was wrong. The Elder’s face was carefully neutral, but his jaw was clenched tight, and his hands trembled slightly with suppressed emotion.

Subject analysis: angry. Deeply angry. Struggling to maintain composure.

”Elder?” Jayde stood. ”What happened?”

”Not here,” he said quietly. ”Where’s Master Whitestone?”

”Looking at the display cases—” Jayde’s head turned toward the area.

Then she heard it.

A crash. A woman’s shriek.

Contact.

Jayde was moving before conscious thought finished, her body reacting with trained precision. Elder Ryunzo followed close behind, his anger momentarily forgotten in concern.

They pushed through the gathering crowd.

Master Whitestone lay on the marble floor, blood seeping through his fingers where he clutched his chest. A horrible whip mark cut across his torso—deep, brutal, the kind that would scar.

And standing over him, a young woman held a coiled whip, its leather tip stained red.

”How DARE you block my way, you filthy slag-born!” she screeched.

Jayde’s eyes locked onto her. Mid-twenties, beautiful in a sharp-edged way, wearing silk robes worth more than Tardide’s entire harvest. Rings glittered on every finger, and her elaborately braided hair was woven with golden thread. Her eyes held a particular cruelty Jayde recognized—the kind that came from never facing consequences.

Privileged sadist. High social position. Accustomed to violence without repercussion.

”Master Whitestone!” Elder Ryunzo rushed forward, but Jayde was already there, dropping to her knees beside the blacksmith.

”Are you okay?” She checked the wound. Deep, but not life-threatening if treated quickly.

”I’m fine,” he grunted, though his face was pale. ”Just... bumped into her by accident. Didn’t see her coming.”

”By accident?” The woman’s voice rose to a shriek. ”You DARE make excuses? You ashblood wretch should’ve thrown yourself to the floor the moment you saw me!”

Jayde stood slowly, deliberately, her amber eyes meeting the woman’s gaze.

”Apologize,” she said, her voice flat and cold.

The crowd gasped. Someone whispered, ”Does she know who that is?”

”That’s Jenfer Lastorm—the Treasurer’s daughter!”

”By the forge, those people are dead.”

”Someone should tell them...”

Jenfer Lastorm stared at Jayde, her mouth opening and closing. Then she laughed—high, sharp, tinged with madness.

”Did this cinderborn WHELP just demand I apologize?” She turned to the crowd as if seeking confirmation of the absurdity. ”To HER?”

Escalation likely, Jayde’s tactical mind noted. Subject unstable. Violence probability: ninety percent.

Elder Ryunzo moved to Jayde’s side, his earlier anger now mixed with concern. ”Please, young miss, there’s been a misunderstanding—”

”Shut up, old man,” Jenfer snapped. Then her eyes narrowed, focusing on Jayde with sudden vicious intent. ”You know what? I’m going to enjoy this.”

She raised her voice. ”Mekcos! Front and center!”

A man stepped forward from behind a nearby pillar—average height, thin, with greasy brown hair and a face that made Jayde’s skin crawl. His eyes traveled over her body with open hunger, and his smile was the kind she’d seen before. The kind that enjoyed pain.

Fire essence detected, her tactical assessment continued. Low-level mage. Combat threat: minimal. Psychological threat: high.

”Mekcos,” Jenfer purred, ”burn her face. I want it ruined. Then she’s yours—do whatever you want with her. Take your time.” She gestured dismissively. ”Oh, and grab that oaf. I want his skin intact for my wall.”

The crowd had pulled back, creating a wide circle. Jayde saw fear in their eyes—not for her, but of Jenfer. They’d seen this before. Many times.

Pattern established, her Federation mind catalogued coldly. Serial killer. Protected by family position. Multiple prior victims. Public witnesses too afraid to intervene.

”Wait!” Elder Ryunzo stepped forward, his voice shaking—not with fear, but with barely controlled rage. ”This is madness! You can’t just—”

”Watch me, old fool.”

Mekcos was already weaving his magic, a small fireball forming in his palm. His smile widened as he approached Jayde.

”Don’t worry, girl,” he said, his voice oily and wrong. ”I’ll make sure you survive. Can’t enjoy you properly if you’re dead.” His tongue ran across his lips. ”And I do so enjoy breaking pretty things. The prettier they are, the more fun it is to watch them beg.”

Threat confirmed. Lethal force authorized.

(He’s going to hurt me. He’s going to—)

No. He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Jayde’s hand moved—not to defend, but to strike. Her Inferno essence flared, golden-red flames that burned hotter than anything Mekcos had ever channeled. The weave of fire magic shot from her fingertips with surgical precision.

Mekcos had time to look confused before the magic penetrated his chest.

The fireball in his hand flickered out.

Then he exploded.

Flesh and bone and blood erupted outward as Jayde’s magic ignited every drop of essence in his body. The heat was instantaneous, cauterizing even as it destroyed. Charred fragments splattered across the marble floor, across Jenfer’s expensive silk robes, across the pillars and walls.

The crowd screamed.

Jenfer stood frozen, covered in her bodyguard’s remains, her mouth open in a silent scream of horror.

”Guards!” she finally shrieked, her voice breaking. ”GUARDS! Kill her! Kill them all!”

Six men rushed forward, drawing swords. They wore Lastorm colors—Jenfer’s personal guards, not Guild security.

Multiple targets. Simultaneous engagement required.

Jayde’s hands moved in the patterns Green had drilled into her—efficient, lethal, no wasted motion. Six fire weaves launched simultaneously, each targeting a different guard.

The screaming started immediately.

The guards fell, flames consuming them from the inside out. Jayde’s golden-touched Inferno essence burned hot enough to reduce bone to ash in seconds. The smell of burning flesh filled the hall, acrid and terrible.

Threats neutralized. Mission: protect allies. Status: successful.

Jenfer had fallen backward, crab-crawling away from Jayde, her face a mask of absolute terror. ”No! Stay away! STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

The crowd was paralyzed—some staring in horror, others in awe, all of them pressed against the walls as if Jayde might turn on them next.

(I killed them. I killed them all.)

They threatened rape, torture, and murder. The Federation Rules of Engagement authorize lethal force against such threats. We did nothing wrong.

(But there’s so much blood. So much ash.)

Better theirs than ours. Better theirs than Master Whitestone’s skin on a wall.

”WHAT IN SEVEN HELLS IS HAPPENING IN MY GUILD?”

The bellow cut through the hall like a whip crack. A fat man in expensive robes came barreling through the crowd, his face red with rage, rings glittering on every finger.

He stopped when he saw his daughter covered in gore, surrounded by piles of ash.

”Who... who dares...” His eyes found Jayde, saw her standing calm amid the carnage. ”You! You attacked my precious daughter?”

Secondary threat. Assess.

”Your daughter,” Jayde said coldly, ”whipped my friend without provocation. Then she ordered her guards to burn my face, rape me repeatedly, and skin him alive.” Her amber eyes were flat, emotionless. ”I responded proportionally.”

”You DARE—” The man—Treasurer Lastorm, Jayde realized—rushed toward her, his meaty fist raised.

Jayde wove another fireball, larger this time, and threw it at the marble floor directly in his path.

The explosion was controlled but dramatic. A crater opened in the expensive marble, edges blackened from the heat. Small shards flew outward, several piercing the Treasurer’s legs. He stumbled, nearly fell into the smoking hole, and dropped to his knees.

The entire hall fell silent.

Treasurer Lastorm stared at the crater, at his bleeding legs, at the teenage girl who’d just proven she could kill him as easily as breathing.

His rage drained like water from a shattered vessel. He prostrated himself, forehead touching the marble.

”V-Venerable Lady Mage,” he stammered, his voice shaking. ”Please... please forgive this lowly one’s transgression.”

Subject neutralized. Threat assessment: minimal.

Elder Ryunzo stood nearby, his earlier anger now mixed with shock at what he’d just witnessed. Master Whitestone had pulled himself to his feet, one hand pressed to his bleeding chest.

The crowd watched in absolute silence, barely daring to breathe.

Then—footsteps. Measured, unhurried, but carrying weight.

An elderly man entered the hall, moving with the careful precision of someone who’d seen too many years but refused to slow down. His silver-white mustache was impeccably groomed, his robes elegant but understated. Sharp brown eyes took in the scene—the ash piles, the crater, the Treasurer on his knees, Jenfer covered in gore, Master Whitestone bleeding, and Jayde standing in the center of it all.

A younger man followed him—maybe forty, with the same brown eyes and a bearing that spoke of authority.

Both stopped.

The elderly man’s face darkened—not with anger at Jayde, but with something far more complex. Horror. Shame. Recognition of what had happened in his Guild.

”What,” he said quietly, dangerously, ”is going on here?”