Chapter 556
Julia walked through the living wing once, inspecting like a commander checking barracks. She ran a hand along a bedframe, tested a chair, checked the spacing between rooms.
Then she nodded, satisfied.
“This will do,” she said.
Ludger exhaled through his nose. “Good. Work starts tomorrow.”
Julia’s mouth twitched, half smile, half promise.
“It will,” she replied.
And as the first lamps lit in the new building and tired workers claimed their beds, Ludger stood outside for a moment, watching the last light fade off the stone.
No profit yet. Not for months, probably. But Lionfang had just gained something important: A craftline. A reason for skilled people to come here and stay. A foothold in a future that wasn’t built solely on fighting.
Ludger decided to wait.
Not because he doubted Julia, he didn’t, but because he’d learned the hard way that rushing the “next step” was how you turned a good plan into a problem that bled. He wanted to see what the new group could actually do before he committed more money, more space, and more attention.
So he kept moving.
Paperwork at the guild came first. Contracts for wages. Procurement lists for tools. Inventories for silk, froststeel, feathers. Repair schedules. Escort rosters. Training rotations. The boring spine of a town that wanted to survive its own growth.
Then he did the loud work. He went to the walls. Earth mana sank into the ground like a command, and Lionfang responded.
Stone shifted. Sections of the outer perimeter moved outward with a grinding, controlled motion, new foundations laid, old trenches filled, fresh berms raised. He didn’t demolish the town and rebuild it. He expanded it the way you expanded lungs: carefully, because too fast meant tearing something important.
By the time he was done for the day, Lionfang had gained breathing room. More lots. More future. And more responsibilities. He was still dusting grit from his gloves when Yvar poked his head into the office.
“Vice Guildmaster,” he began.
Ludger didn’t look up. “If it’s another complaint about northerners, write it down and—”
“It’s not,” Yvar said, tone faintly amused. “Julia is here.”
That got Ludger to lift his eyes.
“Send her in.”
Julia entered with a bundle in her arms, wrapped in plain cloth. She didn’t look like a woman here to talk. She looked like a craft leader arriving with evidence.
Her group trailed behind her, two workers carrying smaller bundles, their posture a mix of pride and nervousness. They’d done something real and they wanted it judged. Julia laid the bundle on Ludger’s desk and unwrapped it.
Cloth, dark, matte, surprisingly smooth. It didn’t shine like silk usually did. It looked… contained. Like the thread had been bullied into behaving.
“We made prototypes,” Julia said.
Ludger picked up the first piece without comment. A shirt. Then pants. Socks. A wrap. A couple of underlayers. Practical items first, not flashy nonsense. Good.
He ran his fingers over the surface, expecting to feel the weave, the thread lines, the tiny imperfections, the telltale texture that marked cheap work. He didn’t.
The fabric felt almost unified. The weave existed, but it wasn’t obvious. Tight. Compressed. Like the threads had been aligned and convinced to lock together rather than just lie beside each other.
Ludger’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I expected to see the threads.”
Julia nodded like she’d expected that reaction. “So did we.”
She tapped the fabric with a knuckle. “But once it’s processed right, it settles. The silk wants to cling to itself. It doesn’t separate like normal fiber.”
Ludger lifted the shirt higher, inspecting it in the light.
“Explain properties,” he said.
Julia smiled faintly, professional satisfaction. “Elastic,” she said. “More than wool, less than pure spider web when it’s raw. It stretches and returns without tearing.”
She held up the pants. “Durable. It resists fraying. And it’s comfortable. Surprisingly so.”
Ludger’s gaze stayed on the cloth. “And against weapons.”
Julia’s expression turned more serious. “We tested with what we had.”
One of her workers stepped forward and produced an old practice blade, a dull iron short sword used for training.
Julia took the shirt, laid it over the desk edge, and without waiting for permission drew the blade across it in a firm slicing motion.
The fabric didn’t cut. It didn’t even snag properly. The blade skated, the cloth shifting slightly under pressure like it was deciding the strike wasn’t worth acknowledging. Julia repeated it, harder.
Still nothing. A faint mark, maybe, more like a scuff than a tear.
“It’s not that it’s impossible to cut,” Julia said, watching Ludger closely. “A real blade reinforced with proper force will eventually do it.”
She lifted the shirt and pinched the fabric between fingers. “But the material deflects sharp and pointy objects. It doesn’t like being pierced. The weave shifts. The thread tension spreads the force. Like it’s trying to… redirect.”
Ludger set the blade down and took the cloth again, stretching it lightly. It stretched and returned cleanly. No deformation. No weak pull lines. He nodded once, slow.
In his head, the information immediately started looking less like “clothing” and more like “applications.”
Undershirts to reduce cuts and punctures. Liners under armor to stop arrows from biting deep. Gloves that didn’t shred when you grabbed rope or bramble. Socks that didn’t tear in boots during long marches. Bandages that held tension and didn’t unravel.
If the fabric deflected pointy objects, then it might help with spikes, barbs, hooks, anything designed to pierce and anchor. It wouldn’t make someone invincible. But it could be the difference between “wounded” and “dead” when something fast and sharp hit the wrong angle. Ludger nodded again, more to himself this time.
Julia watched him. “Useful?”
“Potentially,” Ludger said.
His eyes stayed on the shirt, but his mind was already somewhere else, half-drowned corridors, runic golems, tether lines, and soldiers wearing elastic, durable layers that didn’t panic when a spearpoint found them.
He exhaled through his nose.
How do I use this best? he wondered.
Not if. How. Julia laid the prototypes out with the careful pride of someone presenting a finished blade to a smith. Then she pointed at the pieces she considered the real winners.
“If you want the most benefit,” Julia said, “don’t think like a tailor. Think like a trader.”
Ludger’s gaze stayed on the cloth. “Go on.”
“Gloves,” she said immediately, tapping the pair she’d brought. “Good gloves. Not just for warmth. For grip. For protection. People ruin their hands and pretend it’s nothing. Delvers, sailors, guards, miners, everyone buys gloves if they don’t fall apart after a week.”
She lifted a scarf next, long and thick, the weave tight but soft. “Scarves too. Cold places. Wind. Northern caravans. A scarf that stays warm even when wet? That sells itself.”
Ludger nodded once. That made sense. Low barrier. High volume. Easy to scale. Julia’s eyes sharpened as she moved to the next item.
“And robes,” she said, almost casually, like she was naming an obvious truth. “For mages.”
Ludger’s attention shifted fully to her. Julia gestured with both hands, describing the shape as if she could already see a market stall full of them.
“Mages don’t just want warmth,” she continued. “They want freedom of movement. They want fabric that doesn’t snag on gear. They want sleeves that don’t tear when they throw spells. And if this silk deflects sharp things even a little… It is a product that would be useful for the Velis League and other countries.”
She tapped the chest of the shirt. “A robe that resists stray arrows and blade nicks? A robe that doesn’t rip when a beast gets close? That’s luxury and survival at the same time.”
Ludger nodded again, slower. He could already see it: gloves and scarves as steady income, bulk goods that pulled coin into Lionfang like a river. Robes as prestige goods. High-price. High-demand among the right people. The kind of item nobles and academies would notice.
And noticing was both opportunity and danger. His eyes drifted back to the fabric, and his mind did what it always did. It started thinking about runes.
Enchantments.
He could imagine it too easily: a scarf with embedded warmth channels, gloves with grip-assist runes, robes with stabilization arrays for casting, minor ward patterns to reduce backlash. But the moment he pictured carving runes into the silk itself, his stomach tightened with instinct.
Runes weren’t gentle.
They were engraved intent, carved paths that forced mana to behave. Great for metal. Great for plates and bracers. Cloth… cloth was alive in its own way. Flexible. Moving. Tensioned.
Runes would fight it. And spider silk, especially, would resent it. Ludger’s eyes narrowed.
Regular enchantments would be better.
Not carved circuits, woven magic. Soaked patterns. A proper enchanter’s touch that could bind effects without slicing the material’s structure apart. Something softer, distributed through the fibers instead of burned into them.
Runes would damage the material fast. Even if the first enchantment held, the motion and stretch would stress the channels until they cracked.
The problem was simple. Ludger had never met an enchanter like that. He’d dealt with runesmiths, artificers, craftsmen who etched and hammered and measured.
But enchanters, the kind that treated magic like dye in water and could bind it into cloth without ruining it, were rare. Or hidden. Or expensive enough that people didn’t admit they existed.
He didn’t have the chance to learn. Not yet. Ludger looked up from the fabric and met Julia’s eyes.
“Gloves and scarves first,” he said. “Robes after we stabilize production.”
Julia nodded, satisfied. “That’s what I’d recommend.”
Ludger’s gaze returned to the silk.
“And for the robes,” he murmured more to himself than to her, “we’ll need the right kind of enchanting.”
Julia tilted her head. “You don’t do that?”
“I do runes,” Ludger replied flatly. “Runes are… harsh.”
He ran his thumb lightly over the cloth again. “This material doesn’t deal with harsh.”
Julia’s mouth twitched, amused. “Didn’t think I’d hear you sound sentimental.”
“I’m not,” Ludger said. “I’m being practical.”
He set the glove down carefully, as if it mattered.
Then his mind slid to the next problem, as it always did.
Find an enchanter.
Because if he could combine spider silk products with proper enchantments… that wasn’t just a business. That was another pillar.
Ludger rolled one of the gloves between his fingers again, slower this time. Something about it didn’t match his memory.
In the fights, the webs had been a nightmare. Sticky in a way that wasn’t just “thread on skin.” They grabbed. They anchored to armor. They clung to weapons. They turned a clean movement into a stupid death if you didn’t cut yourself free fast enough.
This… didn’t. The glove felt smooth. Firm. Elastic. Not tacky at all. He frowned faintly.
The silk they’d harvested outside the labyrinth had been the same, annoying to handle because it clung to itself, but it hadn’t had that aggressive, predatory stickiness the combat webs had.
So why?
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