CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Monopoly Power

The office was a fortress of paper, reports stacked high on my desk, each one a crisis demanding my signature. District 98's wards buzzed faintly outside the window, their hum a reminder of the fog pressing against our borders.

As Second Overseer of District 98 and Second High Commander of New Araksiun, I carried two titles that felt heavier than the chainrunner armor I'd trained in. At 16, I was supposed to lead two districts, keep the supply lines open, and hold the wards against breaches. "Second Overseer, Second High Commander," Dain said, his voice calm and assured, breaking the quiet. "What do you think, Tarin? These plaques look good, don't they?" He stood near the door, holding a polished frame, the engraved titles catching the flicker of the lamp.

The old plaques were too small, built for one title, one office. When I took both roles, I'd tried separate offices, but darting between buildings for every new issue was a waste of time. Issues never stopped coming. "They're fine, Dain," I said, my eyes fixed on the documents in front of me. My quill scratched the page, allocating chainrunners for a supply haul. The plaques could wait; keeping New Araksiun alive couldn't.

"Your coffee, High Commander." A young maid slipped in, her voice soft, setting a steaming mug on the desk. I reached for it, desperate for the jolt, but Dain was faster. "No, no, no," he said, snatching it away, his chainrunner reflexes sharp despite his years behind a desk. "Tarin, go sleep." His tone was firm, the same one he'd used when I was a kid sneaking into Lirien's training yard.

I lunged for the mug, but he held it high, out of reach. "Just let me finish this stack," I said, gesturing at the documents—chainrunner details for the next run into the fog. My eyes burned, my head heavy, but duty didn't wait. Dain's brow furrowed, his graying beard catching the light. "This isn't about effort, Tarin. It's responsibility. You need to be sharp, always." He set the coffee down, far from me.

He was right, anyway. I glanced at the Dawnbreak Bow, propped against the wall, its curve gleaming faintly, almost mocking. The strongest artifact in the districts, now mine to wield. Artifact Holder. Protector. The light that holds the wards when monsters breach.

I laughed, a dry sound. Me, the protector? While Omen was gone, fighting gods-knew-what, I battled paperwork, whittling numbers to keep two districts alive. The bow's weight wasn't just its material, it was the expectation, the whispers of chainrunners calling me Lirien's heir. I wasn't her, not even close. Not Omen, either, with his claws and fearless grit. But Omen would come back, I knew it. Until then, I had to hold the line in case monsters decided to attack.

"You're right. I'll rest." I forced a smile, hiding the pressure knotting my chest. He nodded, already scanning the rosters. "Good. I'll finish these," he said. "Be ready tomorrow, High Commander."

I left, the bow's glow lingering in my vision, its weight a promise I couldn't break. Sleep felt like stepping back, but a breach would need me sharp, not staggering. I collapsed in my quarters, waking to find Dain's neat script on the cleared desk, the schedules done. Duty didn't pause, and neither could I.

***

Dain's knack for paperwork was a lifeline, and I owed him for it. He'd finalized the documents for our next major run to District 96, where we'd trade beast carcasses for batteries, the lifeblood of every district.

We hadn't planned to hunt, but the fog was thick with beasts; we'd kill what crossed our path and haul them along. District 97's sub-artifacts, etched with mana conduits, gave our chainrunners the strength to carry such loads, though nothing matched Omen's storage ring. I pushed the thought of my brother aside, focusing on the task.

I leaned against the table in the chainrunner headquarters, the air sharp with ink and sweat. Gustav stood across from me, flipping through the documents I'd handed him. His weathered face, scarred from decades in the fog, creased with doubt. "You sure this'll work, High Commander?" he asked, his voice rough but respectful. He was still settling into his role as chainrunner captain, the first non-Blackthorn to hold it in District 98's history. The chainrunners trusted him, though—his years outrunning horrors earned that.

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"It'll work," I said, sipping coffee, the bitter heat steadying me. I met his eyes, my tone firm. "Or are you saying your chainrunners can't handle the cargo, Captain?" My words carried a challenge, light but pointed, reminding him who set the course. Gustav's lips twitched, not quite a smile, his respect for strength clear in the way he straightened.

"They'll manage," he said, tapping the papers. "With Lucious's carts, we could haul twice the load. But that's not my worry..." His eyes flicked to the headquarters' walls, where diagrams of the new carts hung, their designs scratched in charcoal.

I glanced at the sketches, raising an eyebrow. "Speaking of those carts, what's your take? Any good?" I kept my voice casual, but I needed his read.

He barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone. "Any good? They're a damn miracle. Moving cargo in the fog's like dragging stone, till those carts kick in. Thank the gods that mad crafter's on our side." His grin faded, but the admiration lingered. Lucious, District 97's master crafter, was a cornerstone of New Araksiun, and I felt a surge of pride for the alliance Lirien had forged before her death.

I nodded, stepping closer to the diagram. The carts were Lucious's genius, heavy brutes of wood and metal, needing three chainrunners to push them into the fog. But once the mana thickened, they drank it in, conduits glowing as they converted it to energy, lightening the load. A single runner could then shove half a ton of beast like it was a sack of grain.

Gustav's concern wasn't the fog's beasts or the cargo—I knew that much. His hesitation was about my plan, the kind of gambit that could reshape trade between districts. I was planning to buy every battery batch from District 96, not just one. "It'll work, Gustav," I said, my voice steady, carrying the weight of High Commander. "District 96 has no reason to refuse us. Besides, have you forgotten the Proclamation of Refoundation?"

The words landed like a ward's hum, silencing the room. Gustav's weathered face tightened, his playful edge gone, replaced by a chainrunner's reverence. Around him, the others stiffened, chainrunners pausing mid-step, their eyes flicking to me.

Behind Gustav stood Artemis, her lean frame coiled like a blade, her assassin's artifact—a shadow-wreathed dagger—glinting at her hip. Her dark eyes sparked with approval, a rare sight from someone whose kills in the fog were whispered about with awe. Leslo, her younger sibling, hovered at her side, mirroring her stance, his own blade less ornate but no less sharp. The siblings' rise among the chainrunners, especially Artemis as an artifact holder, made them legends in the making, and their reaction to the proclamation spoke volumes.

That document, penned by Lirien before her death, was more than words on parchment. To the chainrunners, to those who believed in New Araksiun, it was sacred, a vow to rebuild Araksiun's fractured wards, to forge a city whole again. As High Commander, my voice gave it power, and I wielded it deliberately. "The proclamation is clear," I said, rising from my chair, my gaze sweeping the room. "The districts outside New Araksiun are foreign nations, their wards divided. It's our duty to unite them, to make Araksiun whole. District 96 is the next step."

Gustav opened his mouth, then closed it, nodding slowly. "Understood, sir," he said, his voice low, respectful. Artemis's lips curved faintly, her approval a silent blade, while Leslo's chest puffed, echoing her pride. I felt the room's weight shift—my authority, not just my titles, holding them.

My plan was simple. District 96, sole producer of batteries, had grown soft, its chainrunners few, its guards fewer. Other districts braved the fog to trade for their batteries, risking lives for goods District 96 demanded—no credits, only resources. Their monopoly let them sit safe, letting others die in the runs. But New Araksiun changed the game. With Districts 97 and 98 under my command, I held the routes to 96, the flow of goods in and out. A monopoly to counter theirs.

I paced, my boots clicking on the stone floor. "District 96 relies on us now," I said, my voice sharp. "We'll buy their batteries—all of them. Not to hoard, but to trade, to show 99 and 100 what New Araksiun offers." Chainrunners from those districts were already in 98, waiting for 96's next batch.

When we refused them passage through District 97—New Araksiun's crafting heart—they'd balked, called it absurd. But the alternative was a grueling detour, with no safe district to rest. Or they could sell their goods to us, wait here, and buy the batteries we'd bring from 96, saving their chainrunners and resources.

They'd agreed, practically begging to trade. We'd hunt beasts in our way to 96, filling the carts, and deliver their batteries at a premium. Each deal tightened our grip—96 would see our strength, our tools, and fear isolation. Over time, they'd join New Araksiun to stay in the trade line, drawn by cheaper goods and 97's weapons. Districts 99 and 100 would follow, lured by safety and profit, all under Lirien's proclamation.

Gustav's caution lingered, but he said nothing, his respect for my command clear. I hoped this honored Lirien's proclamation, her vision. She'd have stormed 96 herself, bow in hand. I chose markets, not blades, but the goal was hers. Omen, out there fighting, would understand. I'd unify these districts before he returned.

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