Meanwhile in Snownorth, Samuel Barrow sat in his favorite back room—half storeroom, half workshop, half office.

  The lamp flickered. He did not blink. He barely breathed.

  A crystal no bigger than the tip of a baby’s pinky lay on his plump palm, slick with sweat. Barrow adjusted his monocle, pressing it deeper into the socket, and lifted the stone closer to the light.

  The facets flared.

  This was not the cold, shallow shine of common ice. The glow came from within—dense, saturated, the color of a storm front just before it breaks.

  Samuel felt his collar tighten. A button on his vest, stretched over his round belly, dug into his skin. He yanked open a desk drawer and pulled out a thick leather-bound reference book. He knew it almost by heart and had not touched it in ten years, but today he opened it straight to the table of contents.

  There it is.

  His eyes found the section on their own: Comparative Table of Crystal Density.

  What he remembered matched the printed data. Color density. Refraction. No cloudy inclusions. And of course that deep, saturated blue, known in common speech as the “Royal Cluster” color.

  You did not find crystals like this in surface scree. You knocked them out of the very heart of a crystal vein.

  Barrow clenched the crystal in his fist so hard the sharp edges bit into his skin. His heart hammered in his throat. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, forced himself to breathe, and pulled a mask of bored indifference over his face. Then he checked it in the mirror and stepped out into the shop.

  The visitor—a wiry little man in a patched coat, reeking of dog and cheap tobacco—flinched at the door.

  He stood at the counter, crushing a ragged hat in his hands.

  “Well, Mr. Barrow?” The man’s voice cracked into a thin, shrill squeal. “Don’t keep me hanging. Is it glass? Did they screw me?”

  Samuel sighed heavily, as if pointless questions exhausted him. He dropped the stone onto the velvet pad on the counter—careless, like it was gravel.

  “Where did you say you got this?” he asked lazily, pulling out a ledger.

  “Garret paid me with it!” the trader blurted, shifting from foot to foot. “He owed me for gear from last year. Came in yesterday—grim, black as soot… I thought he’d tell me to get lost. Instead he shoved this at me. ‘We’re even,’ he says. I figured he slipped me dyed quartz… Folks say he came back empty. Lost his people…”

  Barrow’s eyelids twitched. Just for a fraction of a second.

  He lifted his eyes slowly to the trader.

  “Well. Let’s say it isn’t quartz,” he drawled, tapping the counter with a finger. “But the quality… trash. See the haze inside?”

  The trader craned his neck, trying to spot haze that wasn’t there.

  “Too many microcracks. It’ll crumble under cutting,” Samuel continued, lying without a hint of shame. “For instruments, it’s defective. Only good for grinding—dust for alchemists.”

  “So it’s real?” Hope broke through the man’s voice.

  “Real,” Barrow said, grimacing as if doing him a favor. “But I won’t pay much. One hundred talers. And that’s only out of respect for your gray hair.”

  “One hundred!” The trader exhaled, nearly dropping his hat. Garret’s debt had been barely over fifty. “Bless you, Mr. Barrow. Honest men like you are rare!”

  Samuel counted out the coins. The last taler barely clinked before the trader scooped them up and bolted, afraid the owner would change his mind.

  Barrow was alone again. He flipped the sign to Closed and slid the bolt with a scrape.

  The smile he’d been holding back finally split across his soft face. He picked up the stone again.

  One hundred talers—for something worth four hundred raw. And if he cut it…

  The door to the living quarters swung open.

  Samuel jerked, hiding his hand behind his back, and banged his thigh against the counter.

  His wife stood in the doorway.

  In the dusty, cluttered shop of a northern exchange, she looked like an alien element. A perfectly pressed dark-blue dress that sharpened her silhouette. Not a strand out of place in her elaborate hair. Straight posture. A hard, clean gaze. She looked him over, pausing on the grease stain on his coat.

  “Why is the door bolted in the middle of the day?” she asked.

  Her voice was even, quiet, and Samuel instinctively shrank into his shoulders.

  “Mari, my joy, I just…” He smiled ingratiatingly, breaking into sweat. “A nervous customer… complicated deal…”

  Mari walked to the counter. The click of her heels sounded like a metronome. She stopped across from him and held out her hand, palm up.

  She did not say a word. She simply waited.

  Samuel swallowed. Resisting was pointless—he knew that better than any crystal density chart. His fingers opened, and he reluctantly placed the blue crystal into her well-kept palm.

  Mari’s eyebrows—perfect black arcs—lifted.

  She raised the stone to the light, narrowed her eyes, turned it one way, then another.

  “Deep Blue,” she said. It was not a question. “Where did it come from?”

  “A trader brought it in,” Samuel rattled off. “Bought it for a hundred talers! Can you imagine? Pure profit—”

  “I asked where the stone appeared from, Samuel,” she cut in, never raising her voice.

  She still didn’t look at him. All her attention was fixed on the azure shimmer.

  “It came from Garret. Through the trader.”

  Mari went still. Slowly, she lowered her hand and looked Samuel straight in the eyes.

  “From Garret?” she repeated. “That unlucky bastard everyone was talking about two weeks ago? The one who lost his whole expedition?”

  “Well… yeah. Trader said he settled a debt.”

  She watched him coldly. Samuel blinked. He looked at the stone, then at his wife. Understanding began to creep into his face.

  “Wait,” he whispered. “If they lost everything… where did he get a stone like this?”

  “Exactly.” Mari’s lips curved into a thin, serpentine smile. “Deep Blue isn’t pocket change. If there’s a sample like this, there’s a crystal vein.”

  She set the crystal down and covered it with her palm, as if pinning an insect.

  “He’s lying, Sam. If there’s a vein, there’s more.”

  “He hid it?” Barrow gasped. “But why? Killing his own people… for this?”

  “Or to avoid a tax. Or to come back later—alone.” Mari snapped toward the coat rack and yanked Samuel’s hat down. “Put it on.”

  “Where are we going?” he stammered.

  “To the Settlement Elder. To Hart Morwen.”

  “Now? Mari, maybe we can handle it ourselves…” Samuel’s greedy eyes flicked toward the stone under her hand. “If we squeeze Garret, he’ll sell it to us for half—”

  “Squeeze him with what? Your belly?” She threw the hat at him. “Garret’s a shooter. You’re a dealer. If he laid his own men out, do you think he’ll treat you gently? Let Morwen’s people deal with him. And we…” She picked up the crystal and slid it neatly into the breast pocket of Samuel’s vest, smoothing the lapel. “We get a percentage for vigilance. And first rights to buy whatever gets confiscated.”

  She shoved him toward the door.

  “Run, Sam. Run before he sneakes—or drops dead.”

  Samuel Barrow, owner of the largest exchange in Snownorth, nodded obediently, jammed the hat onto his head, and waddled into the frost, hurrying on short legs toward the Settlement Elder’s house.

  Mari watched him go. Then she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her fingers with disgust—the fingers that had touched her husband’s sweaty palm.

  ————————

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Hart Morwen, the Settlement Elder of Snownorth, sat at a desk signing papers. He was a heavy man with a gray beard braided into cords.

  Yon stood across from him—his right hand, his shadow, his chief executor. Tall and spare, with a face that refused age and emotion.

  The office was hot. A fireplace built of black stone roared, devouring logs as if it meant to compensate for the icy breath of the street outside. The room itself felt like the den of an old, dangerous animal: hides on the floor, heavy furniture of dark waterlogged wood, and a wall-sized map of the region, with Snownorth circled in thick red.

  “What about that fight at The Last Resort?” Morwen asked without looking up from the accounts.

  “Handled,” Yon’s voice rustled like dry paper. “Drunk fools broke three tables and the bouncer’s nose. Damages paid. The instigators got their faces rearranged and slept it off.”

  “Good. That’s enough for them. Licenses?”

  “Debtors again. Carlson is a week late. Says his leg hurts, didn’t go on an expedition.”

  “I don’t give a damn about his leg.” Morwen scribbled a sweeping signature. “He pays, or you sell his mining claim to someone else—even for half price. This isn’t a charity house. If he doesn’t renew by evening, seize his gear against the debt.”

  Yon nodded, writing it down.

  “And one more thing.” Yon turned a page. “Reports on the 'wild ones.' A group of newcomers—three of them. Went up the North Slope two days ago. No prospecting license, no taxes. Word is they were talking in the tavern like Snownorth is nobody’s land.”

  Morwen’s pen stopped.

  Slowly, he raised his head.

  “Nobody’s?” he asked softly. “They think they can pick at my mountains for free?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Send a cleanup team. Greg and his boys.”

  “Disappear in the mountains?” Yon asked, practical.

  “Why so fast?” Morwen smirked. “We’re civilized people. Take everything they found. Take their gear—boots included. Break a couple ribs on each. Let them crawl back through the snow barefoot. If they live, it’ll teach the others. If they don’t—blame the climate.”

  “It will be done.”

  Morwen leaned back, fingers laced over his stomach. His gaze shifted to the map, to the dotted line stretching from the capital of Proxima toward Snownorth.

  “What about the academics?”

  “The Academy expedition returned. No losses. Samples collected. But they brought two dozen city guards with them. And they’re not rushing to leave. Renting rooms, drinking, walking around, writing things down.”

  Morwen grimaced like a toothache.

  “I don’t like it, Yon. Too many uniforms lately. They’re acting like Snownorth is already a province of Proxima. They forget we’re in the neutral zone. I am the law here.”

  He stood and walked to the map, dragging a finger along the settlement’s boundary.

  “If they decide to take us officially, they’ll bring their taxes, their courts… we lose everything. I need more men. More hired guns. Not these drunkards with picks—professionals. So the city garrison thinks three times before it starts making demands.”

  “Mercenaries cost money, Hart,” Yon objected. “The treasury isn’t bottomless. We already spend a third of the budget on perimeter security.”

  “And revenue?”

  “Dropping. Or at least not growing.” Yon shut his notebook. “We’re not getting more prospectors. So many people died in the last half year—six-legged predators, avalanches—that the flow of newcomers dried up…”

  Morwen paced the room, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Like it’s the first time. You don’t know what to do?”

  “Lower the license prices?”

  “What?” Morwen scoffed. “No. Spread rumors. Let them tell a tale that someone found a massive crystal vein near Snownorth. That some ragged nobody came back rich and now bathes in wine and girls. Give it a month or two, it’ll reach the mainland. They’ll come in crowds.”

  “And where do we find this ‘born winner’?” Yon said. “It needs to look real, or they’ll see through it.”

  Morwen’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled.

  “You know what—scratch that. Those ‘wild ones’ you mentioned. Perfect candidates. Came to the Wildlands, found a vein on day one, returned as heroes. Let Greg drag them here… alive. We’ll hand them some stones and send them off.”

  “And if they talk?”

  “Then someone helps them,” Morwen said pleasantly, “be more agreeable.”

  A knock came at the door. Timid, but persistent.

  “Who the hell is it?” Morwen barked.

  The door cracked open, and Samuel Barrow squeezed in sideways, hat crushed in his hands. He looked ready to faint, but his eyes burned with feverish excitement.

  “Settlement Elder… forgive me… this is of the highest importance…”

  “Barrow?” Morwen frowned. “If you’re here to beg for rent relief, get out.”

  “No, no! Never. I brought… this.”

  The fat man hurried to the desk and placed a blue crystal on the cloth with a trembling hand.

  Morwen took it, turned it between his fingers. Even in the office’s dim light, it shone like a small star.

  “What is this?” Morwen asked.

  “A crystal,” Barrow said quickly. “High grade. Deep Blue.”

  Morwen and Yon exchanged a look.

  “Well, well. And where did it come from?”

  “Garret,” Barrow breathed. “That veteran who came back alone two weeks ago. Says his expedition died, says he returned empty… but he paid a trader with this. The trader came to me. My wife—meaning, I—we understood right away…”

  “Deep?” Yon murmured, leaning closer. “The kind that grows only in Royal Clusters?”

  Barrow nodded hard.

  Hart Morwen smiled slowly. It was the smile of a predator catching scent.

  “So Garret came back ‘empty,’ did he?” Morwen asked again.

  “Yes, yes! Tells everyone monsters, ricochets! And meanwhile—this.” Barrow bobbed his head.

  Morwen leaned back and laughed. The sound was dry, barking.

  “Yon, did you hear? The beast runs straight to the hunter.”

  He looked at Barrow.

  “Well done, Sam. Your vigilance will be rewarded. We’ll… remember it when your license comes up for renewal. Now go. And keep your mouth shut, unless you want your tongue nailed to a wall next to those trophies. Give Mari my regards.”

  Barrow bowed and murmured thanks as he rolled out.

  The moment the door shut, Morwen’s smile fell away. He tossed the crystal up and caught it.

  "There's your budget for mercenaries, Yon. And more. If Garret found a vein that produces stones like this—that's power. That's independence." He raised his fist. "Viva la Snownorth!"

  “What do we do with Garret?” Yon’s voice hardened. “Lock him up? Beat the coordinates out of him?”

  “No.” Morwen shook his head. “Garret’s old stock. Tough and careful. If we squeeze him, he’ll clamp shut—or lie, lead us into the wrong mountains. Worst of all, he doesn’t even have family we can leverage.”

  He pressed the crystal down onto the map, right in the center of the thick red circle.

  “Put eyes on him. Don’t touch him yet. Let him think he outplayed everyone. Sooner or later he’ll go back for the rest. Or he’ll try to move more stones. Then we close the net.”

  Morwen lifted his gaze to Yon.

  “Find the crystal vein, Yon. And Garret…” He paused, studying the blue glow. “If he’s smart and hands it over, I might let him walk—and even toss him a bone. If not…”

  He let the sentence hang.

  “…accidents in the mountains happen every day. Especially to the greedy.”