A forced smile stretches across Alaric’s lips, a brittle shield against the tremors that threaten to seize his jaw. Elias Thorne, seated opposite, watches him with an unsettling stillness. His eyes, though presently veiled by shadow, possess an unnerving depth. Internally, Alaric grinds his molars, the phantom ache of suppressed frustration a familiar companion. This is it. The crucial discussion. One stray comment, one ill-timed flash of temper, and the delicate façade of civility could shatter. The weight of the Thorne estate’s dwindling coffer presses down, a leaden cloak around Alaric’s shoulders. He clears his throat, the sound a dry rasp in the ornate, Aetherium-lit chamber. “The recent trials plaguing the Thorne estate make this sum, this three million Aetherium shards, akin to a vital downpour after an enduring drought,” Alaric begins, his voice steeped in practiced deference. He leans forward slightly, the gleam of the Aetherium lamps catching on the polished brass buttons of his vest. “Thanks to your lordship’s exceptional foresight, the family can, at long last, draw a breath of genuine relief.” His true desire, a primal urge to snatch the glimmering sum and secure it away, screams unspoken in his mind: *Well done. Now hand over the shards.* Instead, he maintains the composed mask of the seasoned financial officer, the layers of polite artifice thick around his intentions. Elias shifts, a barely perceptible movement that nonetheless pulls Alaric taut. “Why does the family suddenly breathe easy? It is my money, is it not?” Elias’s voice, crisp and cool, cuts through the calculated pleasantries. “Did you not hear my father’s words, just yesterday?” The thoughtless remark hangs in the air, a cruel, blunt instrument. Alaric feels a familiar wave of dizziness, the floor seeming to tilt beneath him. *It truly is happening,* he thinks, a cold dread coiling in his gut. His facial muscles twitch, threatening to betray his carefully constructed calm, but now is not the time. Never. He grips the edge of the heavy oak table, knuckles white, forcing his expression into rigid neutrality. Two decades as the Thorne estate’s Chief Steward, a master of servile composure, kick in. *Cajole him gently. Very gently.* Before Alaric can utter another carefully chosen word, a cacophony erupts behind him. The lesser stewards, the clerks, the various estate functionaries present for the meeting, burst into a flurry of outrage. “Impossible, my lord!” one cries, his voice cracking with indignation. “You would squander the entire sum by yourself?!” another bellows, spittle flying. “What blasphemy!” A high-pitched, almost hysterical shriek pierces the general din. Elias’s demeanor frosts over instantly. His eyes, now fully catching the Aetherium light, glow with a faint, chilling ruby hue. The air in the room thickens, pressing down on Alaric. He feels the prickle of raw energy, a faint hum radiating from Elias. Alaric, his face a grim, rigid mask, possibly even more unyielding than Elias’s, roars, “What are you doing! How dare you! Out! All of you, out!” The force of his voice, rarely heard in such a raw, uncontrolled manner, reverberates through the room, silencing the clamor instantly. The officials recoil, their faces contorted as if they’ve bitten into something vile. The realization of their grave error dawns on them. Their shoulders slump, their movements defeated, like soldiers retreating from a lost battle. As they shuffle out, their hopeful gazes, desperate and pleading, lock onto Alaric. He is their last bastion, the only one they believe capable of salvaging their fractured world. *Alaric, address the provisioning first.* *No, the structural integrity of the outer districts.* *The operatives’ gear…* Their silent appeals weigh him down. *I will give it my all,* he vows, a silent, desperate prayer to whatever cosmic mechanism governs their volatile Aetherium-fueled metropolis. Left alone, the heavy oak door slams shut with a resonant thud. Alaric, his expression set with grim resolve, turns the massive brass lock, bidding the hopes of the Thorne estate a silent, agonizing farewell. He faces Elias, attempting to re-establish the tenuous thread of civility. “Ha ha ha. My lord, my subordinates acted quite rudely,” Alaric forces a strained chuckle, the sound hollow in the suddenly cavernous room. “They are not usually so senseless, but given the estate’s dire straits… Ha ha.” “Is the estate truly in such dire straits?” Elias asks, his ruby gaze unwavering. Though mindless in their outburst, Alaric’s subordinates had yielded an unexpected, opportune result. Alaric suppresses the urge to clench his fist, the muscle in his forearm twitching involuntarily. He adopts a slightly mournful expression. “You may not be fully aware, my lord, but we carry a crushing three million Aetherium shard debt to the Aetherium Exchange. The interest alone, each fiscal cycle…” He trails off, letting the unspoken weight of the numbers hang heavy. “Yes,” Elias interjects, cutting him off with unsettling precision. “I heard as much yesterday, at the Aetherium Exchange. After depositing the three million Aetherium shards.” Alaric’s throat closes. He gulps, a dry, painful swallow, as Elias casually waves a gleaming, engraved deposit slip in his hand. The profligate youth, the wastrel son, possesses knowledge of the estate’s intricate financial web, and has already taken action. It is disorienting. “Then this simplifies matters immensely,” Alaric recovers, forcing a breath. “With the interest payment imminent, repaying that amount would alleviate the estate’s woes for many years to come. A foundational step toward stability…” “It’s the harvest cycle, isn’t it?” Elias asks, his voice still unnervingly calm. “Paying the interest should be entirely manageable, correct? And the maturity date can be extended automatically.” *How does he know so much?* Alaric’s mind races, a frantic, bewildered scramble. *Even the Master of the Estate isn’t familiar with such granular banking details.* He feels a momentary disorientation, a flicker of panic, but quickly reclaims his composure. This isn’t the core issue, not now. “Ha ha. Managing an estate always involves unforeseen expenses, my lord, and our operational funds are perpetually strained. If you could just provide a small contribution…” Alaric’s initial ambition, to secure the entirety of the three million shards, has unconsciously dwindled. Now, he simply wants a portion, a lifeline. “Are you requesting I contribute to the estate’s operational funds?” Elias asks, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. A spark of triumph ignites within Alaric’s chest. His persuasion, despite the earlier blunders, seems to have worked! Just as he stands on the precipice of internal rejoicing, a cold hand grips his elation, dragging him back from the soaring heights. Elias’s calm voice shatters the moment, as if he had been soaring through the Aetherium-infused skies only to be cruelly reeled in. “Why?” Elias’s ruby gaze fixes on Alaric, an intensity that makes the air crackle. “I thought you were standing against the Master’s opposition for the sake of the estate?” Alaric roars, the sound escaping him before he can temper it. “That’s right, I am!” He shrinks back momentarily under Elias’s chilling glare, but then grinds his teeth, a desperate resolve hardening his face. For the good of the Thorne estate, he cannot allow this fortune to dissipate into the volatile Aetherium without purpose. “I will use this money for the true good of the family,” Elias states, his voice firm. “But certainly not for something as fleeting as immediate operational funds. We must think more long-term.” This unexpected declaration does nothing to soothe the anguish raging within Alaric. *What do you, a spoiled, dissolute youth, know of such decisions! Just leave it to me!* He suppresses the bitter truth rising in his throat, catching his breath in a ragged gasp. “Yes. Say I use the money now to resolve the debt,” Alaric presses, attempting to reason. “How much would the condition of the estate truly change?” “Well… with a larger budget, the financial operations would be more comfortable for at least a few cycles. It buys us some breathing room.” Alaric offers the standard, expected response. Elias lets out a derisive, bitter laugh, exactly as Alaric had anticipated. “We’ll just end up in debt again, won’t we? We possess no unique products, no proprietary Aetherium technologies, nothing to give us an edge. It’s a vicious cycle, a mechanism grinding us down.” “I am trying to break that vicious cycle,” Elias declares, his voice hardening, each word a shard of conviction. “So I will use the money according to my own plans.” *Ah, is this truly the great lord I once knew? That degenerate?* Alaric stares, a profound confusion clouding his mind. Were these the signs of a deeper, hidden facet to the young lord? For once, Alaric is utterly at a loss for words, confronted by such a calm, dispassionate analysis of the estate’s fundamental problem. Regardless, one crucial point remains, one he must confirm. “Ahem, then, if you plan to use it for the good of the family,” Alaric begins, circling the question with every ounce of finesse he possesses, “may I inquire about these plans of yours?” “You don’t need to know,” Elias replies, the words a cold, dismissive finality. That one phrase pushes Alaric’s patience to its breaking point. *All this talk of the family is rubbish. This brat is simply mocking me. It has to be.* Just as Alaric feels his composure fray, about to erupt in a furious, righteous anger— “I will show the results through action.” Elias’s voice, though still calm, carries an undeniable weight. His unwavering ruby eyes, now burning with an intense, otherworldly glow, force Alaric to cling once more to the thin, fraying threads of his rationale. “…Somehow, I will save it. No matter what it takes.” Elias’s words are vague, a low murmur that seems not truly meant for Alaric’s ears. Yet, the gaze in his eyes, deeply sunken by a fierce, almost agonizing determination, betrays an intense, visceral longing. It is a look far more desperate than Alaric’s own, who constantly battles the suffocating immediate monthly budget. What could possibly make the noble son, who just acquired a fortune, appear so profoundly anxious? The glint in his eyes when pointing out the estate’s fundamental flaws, the unexpected depth of his analysis—it is as if this is not the Elias Thorne he has known. Observing Alaric’s conflicted expression, Elias lets out a short, bitter laugh. Alaric arrived with the intent to drain him of funds, yet he is recognized by all as a loyal, if often exasperated, servant of the Thorne family. Elias feels an overwhelming sense of helplessness once more, a fresh sting of the isolation his ‘temporal echo’ imposes. There are so many things, so many terrifying visions of future tragedy, he cannot share with even such a dedicated man. But there is no time to be lost in such emotions. The clock, ticking only for him, rushes towards an unseen, terrible future. *Now that it has come to this, I will have to entrust this task to Alaric,* Elias decides, a cold, swift calculation. *And give him some shards as well.* The idea, born in the spur of the moment, seems improvised, yet undeniably sound. And with that thought, it becomes his words. “Ah. With this in mind, I do have a request for you, Alaric. For the true good of the Thorne estate.” Alaric, still reeling, manages, “…What is your request?” “If you comply, I could also contribute a modest sum to the estate’s operational funds,” Elias offers, a calculated incentive. “Could you gather some operatives under the Thorne family’s name?” “…Operatives, my lord?” Alaric’s brow furrows. “Yes. They don’t necessarily need to be A-grade, as they are quite costly. Just any operatives capable of piloting swift-steeds or light skiffs. Ah, perhaps C-grade would be suitable. Over three hundred C-grade operatives, skilled in mounted operations. Did you understand?” Alaric’s expression undergoes a drastic shift with the specifics, the sheer number, and the grade mentioned. “Three hundred C-grade operatives?” Operatives, hired muscle, are temporary, disposable soldiers gathered to bolster forces in urgent situations—during skirmishes with rival houses, or when rogue Aether-beasts breach the outer districts. E and D-grade operatives are often only good enough for errands, serving simply to pad out the numbers. But starting from C-grade, they are considered genuine, formidable fighters. Each one assumes the role of a proper soldier, trained and possessing enough strength and battlefield experience to hold their ground. Moreover, living and thriving by their blades or piloted vehicles, they tend to be rough, volatile, and notoriously difficult to control. Having such a substantial force—not one or two, but over three hundred of these individuals—is not a matter the Thorne estate can dismiss without serious concern. Thus, Alaric has no choice but to demand a reason. “Why do you require so many operatives, my lord? And such a force?” Elias cannot disclose the truth—that since he cannot command the estate’s established forces as he wishes, he needs his own, uncompromised force. Instead, he offers a plausible excuse, one he had already carefully constructed. “I am thinking of going Aether-beast culling.” His voice is even, devoid of any tells. “To hone my real-world experience. It will also bolster the security of the estate.” Obviously, it is a bluff. *It’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission,* Elias thinks, his internal resolve like cold, polished steel. *Once I’ve gathered the operatives…* Despite his true, desperate intentions, Elias’s expression remains brazen, unyielding, his ruby eyes fixed on Alaric. He continues, the words precise and chillingly calm, “If I make personal requests, gather…”

The Aetherium Gambit