“Miss Remi, it’s not that we won’t hand you obsidian, stone like bottled night. It isn’t special to us, but we can’t scatter it like seeds in the road. It doesn’t comply with the National Cooperation Accord.”

A long table stretched like a cold river. Remi and Flan sat at one bank. At the other, a well-groomed imperial broker in lacquered calm. Half the empire’s factories flowed through his fingers like iron rain.

Once Remi and Flan traced him, they went straight for the source, teleporting in with a whoosh like a knife of wind.

He took them for assassins and went pale as winter ash; fear roots deep, and revenge sprouts quick.

Yes—revenge, as sure as frost at dawn.

Obsidian’s a pebble to him, yet he raises the Accord like a paper shield; if that’s not payback, what is?

Irritation pricked like nettles; Remi clicked her tongue and yielded a step, a reed bending because today she was the one asking.

“Then tell me what it’ll take to hand it over!” Her voice cut like a clean blade across still water.

He wore a classic merchant’s smile, a crescent blade polished bright. His white gloves moved over his chest like snow skimming stone. A black notebook surfaced, midnight-bound. A pink bookmark bloomed like a small carnation. He slid it across the table like a quiet tide to Remi.

“As you can see, Miss Remi, I’m very interested in whether this intel is real.” His tone poured like warm syrup over ice.

Remi lifted it with caution, like taking a sparrow from frost. Fresh white pages held crowded black print like ants marching.

She narrowed her eyes till the world was reeds. After a long read, the gaps spelled it out—Elvenfolk plan to shift their lands into the Mystic Realm.

“Meaning what?” Her question fell like a pebble into a deep well.

Disgust rolled in like damp fog before thought. She refused to let this sort fish for words; merchants are worst when they don’t come for coin.

“Alala—Miss Remi, you’re adorable,” his tone chimed like glass bells. “I want to know if this Elvenfolk land migration is true.”

“Ohya, ohya—maybe you’re confused,” Remi’s sugar turned sharp like candied haw cracking. “We’re a newborn nation. Our own house still smolders like a cooking fire; we’ve no room to mind others.”

Their yin-yang banter smeared the air like oil on water. Flan’s skin prickled like a flock of sparrows. She wondered if her sister’s true talent was sounding vile.

“Miss Remi, we came for cooperation,” his words tapped like rain on tin. “If you show no sincerity…”

“I know—means no deal,” Remi said, her breath cold as moonlight. “Then I’ll see the king; with your intel, that road’s downhill for me.”

“Ahaha—no, you’re mistaken,” he chuckled, smoke curling like incense. “The king’s hands don’t reach industry anymore.”

Revulsion bit like iron rust before reason. If the king can’t touch the mills, the empire’s rot runs deep. This country’s candle gutters in a draft.

Resolve hardened like ice in a bowl. Next time she’d tell Alicia, who grew up under that empire’s roofs. Hiding this would sting her like smoke.

“So, Miss Remi—out of options?” His smile held like a painted mask. “Merchants don’t lie; see the king if you wish. But then our deal…” His words hung like a frayed rope.

Leave this chair, and the trade dies like a lamp in wind.

She could hunt another flag, but time bleeds like sand. Alicia seemed urgent about obsidian—her hourglass was thin.

“Tsk... it’s true,” she said, the admission falling like a stone hissing into dark water.

She flicked the notebook at his face, a swift swallow of shadow. The force was precise—no killing blow, no chance to brace.

He peeled it off slowly like autumn leaves from a pane. The merchant’s smile stayed, a lacquered moon that never cracks.

For a merchant, a steady face is armor, hammered smooth like bronze.

“I knew you were a quick mind, Miss Remi; here’s your goods,” he said, words neat as stacked bricks.

A snap clicked from his white glove like winter ice. A ring sailed a perfect arc and dropped into Remi’s palm like a falling star.

Old trick, but these otherworlders love stuffing rings like hollow moons. If Remi chose, she’d use a beret—storage and charm in one.

She sent a thread of magic like a silver fish. Inside, a heap of obsidian slept like night ice—about a year’s haul, by the feel.

Alicia might not need that much, but it didn’t matter; Remi didn’t lose even a feather.

With the prize in hand, patience thinned like mist. She tugged Flan up, skipped the farewell, and headed for the door like wind through reeds.

At the threshold, his voice rose again, this time grave as a bell at dusk.

“Was this done by Princess Alicia?” he asked, the name ringing like a clear blade.

Irritation cooled like ash before her heel; Remi paused. “I don’t recall owing you answers.”

He wants to fish deeper; let him dream under shallow stars.

“No. This request is under my own name,” he said, voice straight as a spear. “Then I refuse,” she replied, a door shutting like thunder.

Dealing with merchants is a briar patch; you only leave with thorns.

“No—this touches our nation’s survival,” he pressed, urgency blowing like dry wind. “Please, Miss Remi, think twice.”

He brandished duty like a silk rope; moral blackmail is his well-worn glove.

“Plus, I owe you a favor,” he added, the promise hanging like a lantern.

A debt of favor—soft chains, hard to break.

“Yes. The Elvenfolk’s territorial migration is tied to us,” he said, the words landing like heavy snow on bare branches.