The carriage ride back to the Dag estate was silent.
Fornos sat with his hands clasped, his injured cheek faintly throbbing. The pain had dulled long ago, but the wound remained fresh, an ever-present reminder of the night's humiliation. Across from him, his mother, Mary Dag, held a cloth soaked in healing tincture.
"Hold still." Her voice was quieter than usual, barely above a whisper.
Fornos did not flinch as the cool cloth touched his skin, nor did he acknowledge her concern. The only sounds in the carriage were the rhythmic creaks of the wheels against the cobblestone streets and the occasional clatter of hooves.
His father, Voss Dag, sat beside him, staring out the window. He had said nothing since they left the Nevera gathering, his expression unreadable. His silence was not unfamiliar—Voss had always been a man of calculation, of measured words. But tonight, that silence felt heavier, as though something had been lost.
The night's events had already spread through the city like wildfire.
The master of the Dag family had knelt. The young heir had been struck.
For merchants, these things mattered. They mattered more than coin, more than contracts. Perception ruled power. And tonight, the perception of the Dag family had been tainted.
The estate's towering gates came into view, the insignia of the Dag family etched into the iron bars. Even in the darkness, the faint glow of lanterns illuminated the grand structure—a mansion not as ostentatious as a noble's estate, but still a symbol of their wealth and influence.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, servants lined the entrance, bowing as the family stepped out. Though no words were spoken, Fornos could feel it—the weight of unspoken whispers.
"He knelt."
"The young master was struck."
"The Dag name wavered tonight."
Fornos ignored them. His father was the first to move, stepping toward the grand staircase that led to the upper floors. But before Fornos could take another step, Voss's voice stopped him.
"We need to talk."
There was no room for argument.
Fornos followed his father into the study, the familiar scent of old parchment, ink, and oak filling the air. The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Voss sat down behind his desk, rubbing his temple as though attempting to ease a headache. "You did not kneel. That was wise." His gaze met Fornos'. "And foolish."
Fornos remained silent.
Voss exhaled through his nose. "I did what I had to do tonight. You may not understand now, but the alternative would have been worse."
Fornos tilted his head slightly. "Worse for who?"
His father's gaze sharpened, but Fornos did not back down.
"Lord Ornes did not make a mistake tonight. He made a choice."
Voss leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling together. "And what do you plan to do about it?"
Fornos sighed, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "It's almost funny, how they only questioned it for the Fern Company." His voice carried a weight that made his father shift uncomfortably.
The scar he received from Ornes stretched slightly as he smiled—a cold, eerie grin.
"Hell Brokers, Basker Trades, The Silver Ledger, Stag Trading, Bloom Coalition, Blackthorne Trading House, Stormgate Exports—all of them disappeared out of nowhere, in a span of two years."
His voice was steady, casual, like he was recounting a simple market deal.
"Yet no one took a closer look. They just fought over the pieces like carcass-eating insects."
Voss' expression darkened. He knew what his son was implying.
"Even when the cause was drinking beside them," Fornos continued, eyes gleaming. "Dancing with their daughters. Offering them false bargains. Backbiting their sons."
His grin widened, the cut across his cheek making the expression look even sharper, like the curve of a scythe.
Voss clenched his jaw.
"That doesn't answer my question," his father said coldly.
Fornos shrugged, "I'm saying, one more won't make that big of a difference."
The words hung in the air like a dagger poised above them.
Voss's hand slammed against the desk. "No."
The room stilled.
Then—
"No!!!"
Both men turned toward the door.
Mary stood there, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes wide, filled with a mixture of horror and sorrow.
"You can't become like them," she whispered, her voice shaking.
Fornos frowned. "Mother—"
"No!" Her voice cracked. "Not like those monsters, Fornos. Not like the nobles who sit on thrones made of corpses."
The weight in the room shifted.
For a moment, Fornos did not speak.
His mother had always been the most compassionate of the Dag family. Even as a merchant, she believed in negotiation over deception, in deals that did not require blood.
But she had seen it before. She had seen merchants who climbed too high, too quickly. Who forgot they were human.
And now, she saw the same in her son.
Fornos met her gaze. "You're right."
Mary flinched slightly, as if she hadn't expected him to agree.
"Even the most vile of merchants, including myself, are nothing compared to them." His voice was soft, but it carried something dark. "The things they've done without guilt, the things they've erased from history to keep their power intact..."
Mary's lips trembled. "Then why?"
"Because they don't pay for it."
His words sent a chill through the room.
Mary shook her head. "Fornos, power without morality—"
"Mother, morality without power is meaningless."
His voice was not cruel, not cold. But it was unchanging.
Mary took a shaky breath.
Voss was watching the exchange closely, silently, like a man seeing a flood approach but knowing there was no stopping it.
"I will not kneel again."
Fornos turned to his father.
"And neither will you."
Voss stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the wood of his desk.
"Then make sure you never fall."
Fornos smiled again. But this time, there was no amusement.
Only certainty.
Because now, he had already taken the first step down a road with no return.