Elias Thorne feels the low thrum of residual Aetherium in the air, a faint echo of the city's ceaseless industry. He will not waste this moment with deceptions, not on a man whose ledgers are already crimson with debt. Cyrus Vance, his face a landscape of etched worry and exhaustion, regards Elias with a desperate, bewildered gaze. “This one must be utterly mad.” The thought hangs thick in the stale air, clinging to the grimy shop shelves like the dust. There is no logic in prolonged engagement with lunacy, yet a flicker of instinct, raw and animalistic, prompts Vance to speak. “...How much do you plan to invest?” Because even in ruin, a whisper of chance remains, fragile as spun glass. Vance forces a careless shrug, a performance worn thin by countless failed negotiations. He needs to appear nonchalant, prepared for the unexpected, even as his insides twist. Perhaps, he muses, a wealthy scion, drunk on inherited Aetherium Shards, seeks to squander his fortune on a foolish whim. It is a pathetic hope, a threadbare illusion, but his desperation permits no luxury of rejection. He must grasp even the most rotten of lifelines. “How much debt do you carry, Master Vance?” Elias’s voice is level, precise, slicing through the tension. “And what vision do you hold for your next venture?” To Vance’s surprise, the young man’s questions are disturbingly rational, cutting through the fog of his despair. A spark ignites within Vance’s chest, a tiny, improbable warmth. He licks his dry lips. “...Would you truly pour capital into a mercantile venture that has already foundered once?” The question is laced with disbelief, a challenge more than an inquiry. Elias’s eyes, a startling pale blue, hold steady. “It is of no consequence. I trust in your innate talent, Master Vance. I choose to invest, to witness what you can forge.” *Trust in my talent?* Vance’s mind reels. *When have you ever seen me in my prime?* Yet, despite his internal outcry, Elias’s gaze never falters, never drifts. This unwavering intensity, this unnerving focus, does not belong to a madman. Vance finds himself stripping away his prejudices, seeking to understand. He notices a profound conviction in Elias’s eyes, a singular purpose that strikes him with an odd sense of familiarity. It is the gaze of a man confident in his own judgment, one who knows, with chilling certainty, the path he must walk, and possesses the grim belief to see it through to its bitter end. The image is an unsettling echo of a version of himself he has long buried. It is then, in that moment of unsettling recognition, that Vance permits the hope he had so fiercely suppressed to finally lift its head. “Are you truly serious about this investment?” The question is no longer an idle defense, but a plea. It feels like a solitary ray of light piercing the perpetual gloom of the Gilded Alley, and his slim, fragile hope swells, threatening to overwhelm him. “Yes.” Elias’s voice is steady, unwavering. “How many Aetherium Shards would be required to extinguish your debts and grant you a fresh start? I will provide full backing.” These words, sweet as a dream, make Vance’s mood soar, a brief, intoxicating flight from the abyss of his woes. Then, an insignificant scraping sound. It is enough to break the spell. Vance’s head snaps reflexively towards the noise. A fleck of grit, clinging stubbornly to the polished surface of Elias’s reinforced Aetherium conduit harness, dislodges itself, revealing the etched design beneath. An emblem, worn and subtle. The instant Vance’s eyes register the sigil, the euphoria bubbling within him turns to ice. *Of course, it figures.* The bitterness that follows is all the more potent, all the more crushing, precisely because of the towering expectations he had allowed himself to build. “I will endeavor to meet your… conditions as best I can. Simply name them.” The words are flat, devoid of the earlier warmth. All excitement has bled from his spirit, leaving behind a cold husk. He faces not an investor, but a con artist, his expression, Vance now realizes with sickening clarity, a subtly mocking grimace masked by the very determination he’d admired. “Ha, truly… Such a despicable young whelp,” Vance’s voice is a low growl, cold and hard. “I was about to let you off lightly, believing I had simply misunderstood your intentions.” Elias feels a jolt of bewilderment. *What? What did he say?* Everything had seemed to progress smoothly, yet Vance’s abrupt words have shattered the fragile peace, leaving Elias struggling to conceal his surprise. “You.” Vance points a trembling finger at Elias’s chest, his face contorted in a mask of fury. “If you intend to perpetrate a fraud, at least conduct your preparation properly. Learn from those bastards who plundered my wealth before.” Vance’s dramatically altered demeanor is an unexpected retort. Elias watches him, a grim tightness in his chest. It seems Vance is spitefully lashing out at the very person who holds his salvation. Were it not for the raw, aching memories of a future that he alone possesses—a future where Cyrus Vance becomes a pillar of Veridia’s commerce—Elias would dismiss him as a fool. Even with the chilling clarity of his temporal echo, this outburst feels like an act of profound, self-sabotaging idiocy. “You… what are you saying…?” Elias presses, a low question of disbelief. “You are no investor, are you?” Vance retorts, a sneer twisting his lips. *Is this man unhinged? Why this sudden, violent shift?* Elias wonders. *Has his prior business failure unhinged him, transforming him into a mad dog eager to bite any hand that offers help?* These questions, and many more, flicker in Vance’s eyes as he snorts, contempt thick in the air. “You haven’t been in Veridia long enough to even shed the grit from your boots, young master. And you dare stride into the Gilded Alley, into *my* establishment, speaking of investments? Do you even comprehend who I am?” Vance gestures dramatically to his own worn, scuffed boots, which, just as he claims, still bear the stubborn residue of the city’s grimy streets. His finger then whips around, pointing accusingly at Elias’s chest. “Furthermore, I have committed every prominent Aether-House sigil in this city to memory. That crest upon your… equipment…” Vance squints, gesturing at the subtle engraving on Elias’s conduit harness, “...it belongs to the Silas-Croft Lineage. A minor house, struggling with old schematics and new debts. So, tell me, dear fraud-turned-noble? What is your game?” Elias feels a pang, a cold echo of his own family’s decline, even though Vance’s specific identification is incorrect. The Silas-Croft Lineage, indeed, is known for grand but ultimately ruinous Aetherium projects, their coffers perpetually empty. “The Silas-Croft Lineage is a family of chronic debtors, perpetually leeching off their dwindling patents and fragile alliances. And *they* speak of investing? A family that can barely settle its own accounts?” Vance's words are a bitter truth, even if misapplied, and Elias feels the sting. “I am truly regretful to impart this advice, but impersonating a prominent lineage, especially one of even modest standing, carries severe consequences in Veridia. Detection means public Aetherium purging. They are exceptionally stringent here. Do you comprehend?” Vance makes a sharp, slicing gesture across his own throat, his face a caustic blend of cynicism and irritation. “No, but that is actually true…” Elias begins, attempting to clarify. “And more importantly, your *attitude*!” Vance cuts him off, his voice rising. “What is amiss with it…?” Elias asks, genuinely confused. “An investor holds absolute superiority over a desperate merchant!” Vance bellows, his voice cracking with emotion. “Yet you conduct yourself as if you are *anxious* to invest in *me*! Your very approach is flawed. You greenhorn swindler! I am truly, unequivocally, dirt-poor, do you grasp that?! You insolent bastard!” His voice becomes increasingly forceful, the final words a raw, guttural scream. “I am so destitute, I lack the Shards to purchase a proper meal for myself, you son of a…!” Vance’s voice, thick with unbridled anguish, fills the dust-coated shop, brimming with a lifetime of suppressed emotion. Watching a grown man weep is a profoundly uncomfortable experience, as jarring as having to console a heartbroken woman. Elias feels this discomfort anew, a sharp twist in his gut, yet he hesitates to move, to intervene. Despite Vance’s accusations containing many inaccuracies, they could have been reasonable doubts, grounded in logic, had Elias not endured his own harrowing experiences and possessed the chilling clarity of his temporal echo. *And that is the core of the problem.* Elias knows this man’s future, the towering figure he is destined to become in a different timeline. Yet, despite such inherent talent, this younger Vance has been tragically scammed, repeatedly. The renowned merchant Elias remembers from his future echoes, the one who navigated the treacherous currents of Veridia’s economy with unrivaled acumen, is not yet present. *He is not that capable person yet.* Perhaps the trials and tribulations, the very betrayals Vance has yet to face, are the crucible that will forge the man Elias remembers. Indeed, Elias knows it must be precisely that which crafts his future self. *Time, and hardship, must have sculpted the merchant.* But Elias does not possess the luxury of time. He cannot afford to wait for Vance to awaken the latent abilities he will one day wield, to endure all that agonizing hardship. His purpose, driven by profound guilt and a silent rage, demands immediate action to undo his past failures, to rewrite the tragedies he foresaw. Elias’s train of thought suddenly reaches a fundamental question. *Wait, why do I need to invest in his trading company at all?* The future titan of Veridian commerce, as Elias knows him, is dangerously close to abandoning the path of a merchant entirely. *This might be the true opportunity to secure Veridia’s future top merchant for my own cause!* His confused, fragmented thoughts snap into sudden, chilling alignment. Even if Vance doesn’t evolve into the exact figure Elias remembers from his echoes, simply securing his loyalty and talent, preventing his collapse, would undeniably weaken the burgeoning power of the Syndicate of Iron, a shadowy cartel that threatens Veridia’s very foundation in Elias’s future. His thoughts now ruthlessly organized, Elias speaks, his voice devoid of the earlier placation, replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. “If I were to extinguish all your outstanding debts and hire your expertise for the remainder of your life, what would be the cost?” The blunt, unyielding offer is enough to abruptly halt Vance’s wailing, leaving only ragged gasps. “What are you saying?! Are you still attempting to scam—!” Vance starts to shout again, but the words catch in his throat, silenced by the sudden, incandescent burst of raw Aetherium that ignites around Elias’s outstretched hand. A potent, unstable aura of pure energy, shimmering like molten gold, spills into the dusty air, pulsating with undeniable power. It is undeniable. *Could a young genius, capable of channeling raw Aetherium with such potency, truly be a common impostor running petty scams?* The thought is ludicrous, an affront to reason. No one with such inherent power would squander a promising future on such base deceit. That blinding realization proves every single speculation Vance had made about Elias, every bitter assumption, utterly, irrevocably wrong. Elias observes the stunned, almost reverent awe on Vance’s face. He reminds himself, *He is the future merchant. One of Veridia’s most capable.* Elias gathers his thoughts, his expression composed, unreadable. After an awkward, heavy silence, a resigned voice finally breaks through. “Ah… so you truly were… a young master, then. Eeek.” Vance tries to force an apologetic, respectful tone, but his ingrained bitterness, coupled with his recent outburst, makes the shift incredibly clumsy. “But what did you say…?” “I reiterated,” Elias clarifies, his voice now crisp, impatient. “How many Aetherium Shards would it take to hire you for life, with your debts settled?” Vance swallows hard. “...You are willing to hire me? For… life?” The disbelief is palpable. “Yes. Name your price for the contract. Consider the settlement of your existing debts a… gift.” Elias states his terms, clear and unambiguous. He expects a swift acceptance. At this point, it should be a foregone conclusion. However, Vance’s expression twists further, a complicated knot of doubt and lingering suspicion. “...I must first offer my sincerest apologies for the disrespect I showed, due to my grievous misjudgment.” A sense of cold foreboding washes over Elias at the ominous prelude. “But!” Vance continues, his voice rising once more. “Unless some tremendous, seismic shift has occurred that I am entirely unaware of, the… the *Thorne* family, or even the Silas-Croft Lineage for that matter, would possess no such means, would they?” He acknowledges Elias’s power but questions his ability to back his words with actual capital. “Are you suggesting we both sink together, my debts simply piled upon yours? I am sorry, but I am not interested in a suicide pact.” Vance’s refusal is firm, unyielding. He might have misjudged Elias’s power, but one thing remains agonizingly clear to him: *The Thorne family is but a shadow of its former self. And the Silas-Croft Lineage is a beggar’s house. What could either possibly offer?* If it wasn’t a scam, then Elias was either mocking him, or tragically naive, completely oblivious to the harsh, unforgiving realities of Veridia’s economy. *To be born into privilege, to channel such power, must make the world seem an easy place, huh?* Vance decides. It is time to teach this powerful, yet seemingly ignorant, young man a brutal lesson in reality. “My existing debt alone amounts to a quarter-million Aetherium Shards. And my *person*? My talent, my experience… is easily worth that much again. The only certainty a merchant knows is a signed contract. Can we complete this transaction immediately, or must I wait upon your… aetheric musings?” Vance’s tone is exceedingly sarcastic, barbed with his bitter resolve. Elias’s expression hardens imperceptibly. Seeing that chilling look, Vance is about to extinguish the last flickering embers of hope he’d secretly clung to, when Elias suddenly speaks, his voice cutting off Vance’s internal monologue with brutal precision. “Five hundred thousand… That seems like exceptionally odd mathematics to me. How can someone burdened with a quarter-million Shards in debt claim a personal value of another two hundred—”

A Price in Aetherium