Chapter 83 – Mutual Understanding
Chapter 83 – Mutual Understanding
The conversation grew quieter for a brief moment after that.
Taren leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Lucien again with a different perspective than before.
The young man sitting across from him still looked far younger than someone who should realistically be building a publishing company from the ground up. Yet the longer the discussion continued, the harder it became to dismiss him as simply ambitious or reckless.
Lucien, meanwhile, watched Taren calmly for a moment before speaking again.
“Can I ask something honestly?” he said.
Taren gave a small nod. “Go ahead.”
Lucien rested his arm lightly against the table.
“Why stay at Greyford this long?” he asked.
The question was direct, but not hostile.
Taren understood immediately what he actually meant.
With his experience, his position should have progressed far beyond where it currently stood. Even during their previous negotiation, it was obvious enough that much of the discussion had relied more heavily on Taren than Varis despite the difference in authority between them.
Taren remained silent for a few moments before answering.
“A mixture of reasons,” he said eventually.
His tone stayed calm, though quieter than before.
“Some practical. Some personal.”
Lucien did not interrupt.
Taren glanced briefly toward the crowded café around them before continuing.
“The company wasn’t always the way it is now,” he said. “Things changed gradually over the years.”
Dorian listened quietly while Lunessa remained attentive beside him.
“The previous owner was someone I respected a lot,” Taren continued. “More than that, he helped me during difficult years when he didn’t really have to.”
He paused briefly.
“I suppose part of me felt uncomfortable leaving because of that.”
Lucien nodded slowly.
There was no judgment in his expression.
If anything, he seemed to understand the reasoning surprisingly well.
“Loyalty isn’t a bad thing,” Lucien said calmly. “Most companies would rather have more people like that.”
Taren let out a faint breath through his nose.
“Maybe,” he said. “Though sometimes staying too long stops being loyalty and becomes hesitation instead.”
The words settled quietly between them.
Lucien noticed something in that answer but did not press further.
Instead, he shifted the conversation slightly.
“Then why consider leaving now?” he asked.
Taren was quiet again for a moment.
This question was harder to answer honestly.
Not because he lacked reasons, but because putting them into words made them feel more real than he was entirely comfortable with yet.
Eventually, he answered anyway.
“Because I think I’ve stayed long enough already,” he said simply.
The response was restrained, but the meaning behind it was clear enough.
Lucien gave a small nod.
He did not ask about Varis.
He did not ask about internal conflicts.
He did not ask about frustration or disappointment either.
And strangely enough, Taren appreciated that restraint more than he expected.
Lunessa spoke next.
“If you did join,” she said, “the environment here would probably feel very different from Greyford.”
There was a small hint of amusement in her tone as she glanced briefly around the café.
“Right now everyone’s handling three jobs at once.”
Dorian nodded immediately.
“Sometimes four.”
That earned a small laugh from Lunessa.
Even Lucien looked mildly resigned hearing it.
“The organizational structure still isn’t fully stabilized,” he admitted. “Which means responsibilities overlap constantly.”
Taren looked between them.
Oddly enough, hearing them openly admit the difficulties made the company feel more trustworthy rather than less.
None of them were trying to present Crownspire as something flawless or already complete.
They understood exactly where their weaknesses still were.
And for a newly formed company, that level of self-awareness mattered a great deal.
“Then let me ask something else,” Lucien said after a moment.
Taren looked toward him.
“What kind of publishing environment do you think works best?”
This time, Taren answered more quickly.
“One where authors trust the people handling their work,” he said.
Lucien listened quietly.
“Publishing isn’t only about contracts and distribution,” Taren continued. “A good manuscript can still fail if the relationship behind it falls apart.”
His tone remained calm, though years of experience clearly sat behind the words.
“Writers notice very quickly whether they’re being treated like long-term partners or temporary products.”
Lunessa exchanged a brief glance with Dorian.
Lucien remained still for a moment before finally speaking again.
“That’s more or less the same conclusion I came to,” he said quietly.
The conversation slowed again after that, but this time the atmosphere felt noticeably different from earlier.
Less like cautious evaluation.
More like people gradually realizing their ways of thinking aligned more than expected.
Lucien remained quiet for a few moments before speaking again.
“Then let me ask something more practical,” he said.
Taren looked toward him.
“If you did come over to Crownspire,” Lucien continued, “what kind of role would you actually want to handle?”
The question was simple, but Taren understood the meaning behind it immediately.
This was no longer just a conversation about ideas or publishing philosophy.
Lucien was trying to understand where he actually fit into the company itself.
Taren thought for a moment before answering.
“My experience overlaps across several areas,” he said. “But if you’re asking what I’m strongest at, probably acquisitions, editorial coordination, and author relations.”
Dorian listened carefully while Lunessa rested her chin lightly against one hand, paying attention.
“Most people think publishing is mainly about securing manuscripts,” Taren continued calmly. “But managing the relationship after that matters just as much.”
His tone remained measured, though there was quiet confidence behind the words now.
“A writer who trusts the people handling their work usually performs better over time. They communicate more honestly, accept criticism more openly, and stay longer.”
Lucien noticed something subtle as Taren spoke.
Earlier, while discussing contracts and company structures, Taren had sounded experienced and professional.
But now, speaking about authors and the publishing process itself, there was noticeably more life in his voice.
Not excitement exactly.
More like someone discussing work they genuinely cared about after spending too long buried under the parts they did not.
“And honestly,” Taren added after a short pause, “smaller companies usually have an advantage there.”
Lunessa looked slightly curious.
“How so?”
“Because authors actually remember who worked with them,” Taren replied. “In larger companies, relationships become increasingly distant over time. Everything gets divided across departments until eventually writers feel like they’re talking to systems instead of people.”
Dorian gave a small nod at that.
“That’s already something we noticed even from the outside,” he said.
Taren leaned back slightly before continuing.
“That doesn’t mean small companies automatically handle things better,” he clarified. “Some become disorganized instead. Others overpromise because they want to grow too quickly.”
His gaze shifted briefly between the three of them.
“But if the structure is handled properly, smaller publishing houses can build much stronger long-term relationships.”
Lucien remained thoughtful for a moment before asking another question.
“Then if you were in our position right now,” he said, “what would you prioritize first?”
Taren thought briefly before answering.
“Your biggest issue right now probably isn’t growth,” he said. “It’s operational concentration.”
Lucien listened quietly while Dorian’s attention sharpened slightly.
Taren continued calmly.
“Too many responsibilities are still centered around too few people.”
His gaze moved briefly between the three of them.
“Right now that works because the scale is still manageable. But once volume increases further, the pressure compounds very quickly.”
Lunessa nodded faintly as if she already understood exactly what he meant.
“You mean dependency problems,” she said.
“Exactly,” Taren replied. “If too much of the operation depends on specific individuals handling multiple areas at once, eventually bottlenecks start appearing everywhere.”
Dorian leaned back slightly, thoughtful now.
“We’ve already started noticing some of that internally,” he admitted.
Taren gave a small nod.
“That’s normal during early stages,” he said. “The important part is addressing it before growth outpaces structure.”
Lucien remained silent, letting him continue.
“Right now,” Taren said, “you don’t necessarily need a massive workforce immediately. What you need first are reliable people handling clearly separated responsibilities.”
His tone remained measured and practical.
“Editorial coordination, acquisitions, production scheduling, author communication, internal workflow management. Once those areas stabilize properly, expansion becomes much safer.”
Lunessa exchanged a brief glance with Dorian.
Neither interrupted.
“Otherwise,” Taren continued, “small problems start multiplying silently until the entire structure becomes reactive instead of organized.”
Lucien rested his arm lightly against the table.
“And what area do you think becomes the biggest problem first?” he asked.
Taren answered almost immediately.
“Communication breakdown,” he said.
Lunessa looked mildly surprised by the speed of the response.
Taren noticed and explained calmly.
“Most companies think scaling problems begin financially or operationally,” he said. “But usually the first real cracks appear when information stops moving clearly between departments.”
His voice remained steady, shaped by years of experience watching similar situations unfold repeatedly.
“Deadlines become inconsistent. Editorial revisions overlap poorly with production schedules. Authors receive conflicting information. Small mistakes accumulate because nobody realizes where the disconnect started.”
The table grew quieter again.
Lucien studied Taren for a moment longer before speaking again.
“You’ve thought about this kind of structure a lot,” he observed.
Taren let out a faint breath through his nose.
“You tend to after spending enough years watching companies repeat the same mistakes.”
A small smile appeared briefly on Lunessa’s face hearing that.
“That,” she admitted, “is probably the most reassuring answer we could’ve heard.”
Dorian glanced briefly toward Lucien before speaking again.
“Since we’re already talking seriously,” he said, “we should probably be upfront about expectations too.”
Taren gave a small nod. “That’s fair.”
Dorian rested one arm lightly against the table.
“Crownspire is growing quickly,” he said. “But we’re still at the stage where most resources are being pushed back into expansion and stabilization.”
His tone remained calm and straightforward.
“Which means we can’t realistically match what larger established companies offer yet.”
Taren listened quietly without interruption.
“And beyond compensation,” Lucien added, “there’s also the uncertainty that comes with joining something this early.”
Taren listened quietly.
Lucien’s tone remained calm and straightforward.
“Crownspire is growing quickly right now,” he said, “but rapid growth and long-term stability aren’t automatically the same thing.”
Dorian nodded slightly beside him.
“A lot of what we’re building is still in transition,” he added. “Some things are moving faster than expected. Others are still being figured out as we go.”
Lunessa gave a faint smile hearing that.
“That’s probably the most polite way possible to describe our current situation.”
Even Lucien looked mildly amused at that.
Taren found himself appreciating the honesty more than polished reassurance.
“I already assumed there would be uncertainty,” Taren said after a moment. “A company at this stage can’t realistically promise complete stability yet.”
Lucien gave a small nod.
“Exactly,” he said. “Which is why I’d rather discuss things honestly now than create expectations we can’t realistically guarantee yet.”
Dorian looked at him curiously.
“Even then,” he said, “it’s still something you’d need to think carefully about.”
Taren nodded slowly.
“Of course,” he replied. “I’m not in a position where I can ignore stability entirely.”
The answer was realistic enough that nobody looked surprised hearing it.
He had responsibilities beyond himself.
Lucien seemed to understand that immediately as well.
“We’re not expecting immediate answers either,” he said calmly. “This wasn’t meant to pressure you into making a decision tonight.”
Taren looked toward him briefly.
There was no impatience in Lucien’s tone.
No attempt to aggressively sell him on Crownspire or force excitement where uncertainty still existed.
Strangely enough, that restraint made the offer feel more serious rather than less.
“Still,” Lucien continued, “if you do eventually decide to come over, I’d rather it be because you genuinely believe in what we’re building.”
The words were simple. But hearing them, Taren quietly realized something that had been bothering him since arriving.
For the entire conversation, not once had they treated him like someone receiving charity through personal connections.
Not through Eiran. Not through sympathy. Not through desperation to fill positions quickly.
They had questioned him seriously, listened seriously, and evaluated him seriously, and somehow, that mattered more to him than he expected.
By the time the conversation ended, Crownspire no longer felt like a possibility he was merely considering.