CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

Volume 2: The Road to the Academy

Chapter 37: What Stagwatch Buys

Morning reached Cassian through toasted bread, warm milk, and Darren accusing Elara of hiding his better gloves for a second consecutive day.

“I placed them beside the door,” Elara said. “You stepped over them while explaining why household organization was failing.”

“That proves the gloves were participating,” Darren replied, pulling them on beneath Gareth’s unimpressed stare.

Cassian reached for his cup. The bandage beneath his sleeve tightened across the shallow Razorwing cut, but the wound had closed enough that Lena no longer watched every movement.

“I am going north to train,” he said. “I should return before the evening meal.”

Gareth checked the route note beside Cassian’s plate. “Direction, expected return, and the signal point are all written. Keep doing that.”

Lena handed Cassian bread wrapped around smoked meat. “Keep doing this as well. Training does not make hunger less real.”

Cassian accepted the bundle with a small smile. “I will remember the food and the promise.”

I gave Father enough truth to reassure him, but not enough truth to let him choose. If he knew I was crossing the frontier to conduct business in Stagwatch, he would try to stop me, and I would probably go anyway. That was the part I disliked admitting. The work mattered, but necessity still did not make concealment honest.

He followed the stated northern route until Frostwood vanished behind layered ridges, then continued toward the distant mountain cave nobody in his family knew existed.

The entrance resembled an unbroken section of cliff. Ambient mana spread across the gigantic fitted stone, distributing force over every ridge, buried face, and pressure point rather than wrenching at one edge.

Dust whispered from the seams. More than a thousand tons rose slowly from its bed, and the mountain answered with a vibration Cassian felt through both boots. Pebbles skipped, roots strained, and the black opening appeared.

The cave inside was massive. Cassian had divided its vast interior into three sectors joined by cut passages.

The warehouse occupied the driest chamber, where shelves, racks, sealed cases, cores, materials, ores, books, and labeled components remained separated by danger and purpose.

A second chamber served manufacturing. Kilns, shaping tables, tools, ceramic blanks, molds, cooling racks, and mana-safe benches stood beneath ventilation shafts opened through the upper rock.

The deepest chamber belonged to research. It contained reinforced worktables, specimen cabinets, instruments, Veyrite lamps, glassware, containment boxes, anatomical diagrams, and open floor for larger experiments.

The cave was spacious enough for every current need, with unfinished tunnels available for later expansion.

He passed the Stormglass Razorwing’s blue-white core without touching it. The Cinderhorn Ravager and Shale Boar cores remained beside it beneath six crystalline feathers, each wrapped and labeled.

“Anything Ruin-class stays here,” he murmured. “Maelor can disguise a profitable supplier. He cannot conceal a child selling trophies worthy of royal attention.”

Every core in here is useful. Power, money, evidence—it depends on who finds it. If I sell even one Ruin-class core, someone may connect me to hunts no child should survive. I need the books and materials, but I do not need that kind of attention. Once people start asking questions, money will be the least of my problems.

He selected sellable Fang-, Blood-, and Grave-class cores, then added preserved venom glands, plated hide, claws, sensory organs, and botanical samples gathered across months of controlled hunts.

A fifth, smaller case held the month’s Drykeep inserts in its upper tray and the completed Freshkeep prototype inside a padded lower compartment, safely separated from the monster materials.

The four monster-material cases and the smaller commercial case rose into a broad field of invisible pressure. Cassian left the cave, lowered the colossal plug into its fitted bed, and flowed loose earth across the seams until the mountain appeared untouched.

He traveled north on foot long enough to preserve his stated route, then curved south through isolated country before stepping from a lonely ridge into open air.

Wind Shell formed around him. Air curved into a stable envelope, pressure settled around his lungs and ears, and a clear boundary shielded his eyes while ambient mana lifted Cassian and all five cases together.

He climbed through thinning cloud until the forest became a green continent broken by silver rivers. At ten kilometers, cold pressed against the outer shell while the interior remained mild enough for ordinary breathing.

Cassian accelerated toward Mach 0.85. The shell carried nearby air, bled turbulence outward, and dispersed moisture before it formed a visible trail.

The complete journey required approximately thirty-five minutes, including concealment, climb, cruise, and descent. A determined rider would spend days on the same frontier roads.

I have crossed this route dozens of times, yet the final approach still feels impossible. Four years ago, Stagwatch belonged to stories, soldiers, and distant reports. Now I measure the journey in minutes, and part of me still expects the city to vanish when I look down.

Cassian reduced speed far outside the walls and descended to roughly fifteen hundred meters. From there, the city filled his vision without becoming an unreadable pattern beneath distant cloud.

Stagwatch covered the broad rise where three roads converged toward Caldran’s heartlands. Old walls formed a dark spine, while newer districts spread beyond them in defended layers.

Marwick Hall commanded the northern rise, neither palace nor simple fortress. Its towers carried the Silver Stag above a black hill and three silver stars, while inner walls joined residence, archive, court, and military command.

The Adventurers’ Guild district occupied a wide section near the roads. Cassian distinguished training yards, appraisal halls, contract offices, crowded inns, and smoke trailing from nearby smithies.

Southward, tiled roofs gradually replaced rough shingles. Temples lifted narrow towers above crowded squares, wealthy residences climbed toward the central heights, and warehouses pressed close to wagon roads and merchant yards.

Outside the walls, farms, mills, stables, and satellite settlements reached farther than Frostwood’s entire known world had once seemed capable of extending.

“It still amazes me every time I fly here,” Cassian said into the open wind.

When Tomas first described Stagwatch, reaching it felt like stepping into another life. Now I can arrive before Mother finishes the morning accounts. The city has not become smaller; I have only learned how quickly distance yields to power. That should feel entirely freeing, but freedom gained too quickly can resemble isolation from above.

Wonder still catches me whenever the walls fill my vision, and unease follows close behind it. Every boundary that disappears beneath strength makes the wider world easier to reach. It also makes leaving ordinary life easier than returning to it. I cannot let speed turn distance, family, or consequence into abstractions.

Stagwatch’s aerial defenses were practical, not perfect. Towers and detection wards overlapped around Marwick Hall, the Guild, gates, and military compounds; covering the entire sky would require absurd expense.

During earlier visits, Cassian had mapped watch rotations, sightlines, and warehouse corridors between protected districts. The wards were tuned for concentrated formal-spell signatures and large aerial bodies; his diffuse ambient frame never crossed the thresholds their makers expected.

I learned every gap because being unseen matters more than arriving quickly. A single watchman looking upward at the wrong moment could begin a chain of questions that ends in Frostwood. Power lets me cross the sky; patience keeps the sky from becoming evidence.

He entered a bank of cloud east of the walls, curved beneath the haze, and approached through a corridor where warehouse roofs, chimney smoke, and morning mist interrupted every long line of sight.

Cassian descended into the enclosed service courtyard behind The Brass Measure without disturbing the hanging laundry above the neighboring wall. The four trade cases and smaller fifth case settled beside him with barely a scrape.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Jorik waited near the rear door with a hand near his sword. His missing eye and limp returned Cassian to an overturned wagon, five dead guards, and a bark-armored Low Grave-class Grimwood Raker.

At seven, Cassian had broken its climbing limbs and killed it before it reached Maelor Venn and Jorik. Maelor offered a reward; Cassian asked about discreet buyers.

“You arrived without using the gate again,” Jorik said. His voice remained blunt and practical. “Master Venn has complained twice since sunrise, so he was expecting you.”

“I object to inaccurate language,” Maelor called from inside. “Concern is not complaint merely because Jorik dislikes complete sentences.”

Cassian lowered his hood. “I used the courtyard because the roof appeared unnecessarily expensive.”

Maelor Venn emerged in a burgundy merchant’s coat, appraisal lens already hanging from one hand. Gray threaded his dark hair and trimmed beard, while hazel eyes moved from Cassian to the cases.

“Four trade cases and one smaller mystery,” Maelor said. “Please reassure me before my imagination begins calculating royal investigators.”

“Nothing reaches Ruin class. The highest core is Middle Grave, and the collection accumulated gradually.”

“Gradually remains a suspicious word when attached to reinforced containers. Jorik, bring the handcart.”

Jorik returned with a two-wheeled handcart. “Put the heaviest case over the axle. I prefer knowing which part will break first.”

“The axle will not carry most of the weight,” Cassian said as he loaded all five cases and quietly supported them through ambient mana.

Jorik tested the handles, then frowned. “You have made five cases feel like one. Push normally anyway. Stagwatch notices miracles faster than merchandise.”

They entered the basement appraisal room. Maelor unlocked the iron door, checked two alarm threads, and opened the four trade cases beneath steady Veyrite lamps while Cassian kept the smaller commercial case sealed beside the wall.

Maelor lifted the first lid. “Two compartments of cores, one of preserved organs, and enough claws, plates, hides, and botanical samples to occupy three buyers for a month.”

“The botanical samples should remain separate from the venom,” Cassian said. “One releases a reactive oil when warmed.”

Jorik moved the packet farther away. “That warning would have been useful before I carried it beside my leg.”

Maelor fitted the appraisal lens over one eye. “You continue bringing me enough merchandise for an entire hunting company.”

“I am still not an entire company.”

“That answer becomes less reassuring every season.” Maelor pointed toward three warm venom glands. “Why were these not cooled?”

“The species stores heat through mineral-lined tissue. Rapid cooling damages the secretion and lowers its stability.”

Maelor paused briefly. “You are nine years old.”

“I will be ten in several months.”

“The correction worsened my professional concern.”

The appraisal continued beneath the Veyrite lamps, but Jorik refused to let the hour pass in silence.

He held up a cracked armor plate. “This loses value because the edge broke during removal?”

“Because the fracture crosses a mana-bearing layer,” Maelor answered. “A craftsman can still use it, but not for a continuous defensive channel.”

Cassian indicated the intact sensory organ. “That one should increase. I preserved the inner membrane before the channels collapsed.”

Maelor adjusted his lens and examined it twice. “I agree with that assessment. Your preparation is improving faster than my ability to remain pleasantly unsurprised.”

When the figures were complete, Maelor turned the ledger around. “One hundred forty Gold Royals after commission, transport, buyer separation, storage, and the cost of making your existence someone else’s accounting problem.”

Jorik glanced between the cases and the ledger. “Can your buyers accept this much without asking whether an army is hunting in secret?”

“Not as one shipment,” Maelor said. “The cores will leave in staggered lots. The organs go to three specialists, the plates to two workshops, and the botanical samples through a separate caravan account.”

Cassian studied the divisions. “Delay any sale that would force the price downward. I would rather keep material stored than teach buyers to expect impossible supply.”

Maelor gave him a measured nod. “That restraint is why this arrangement remains commerce instead of a public disturbance.”

Cassian studied the columns. “Your deductions are lower than last season.”

“Your preparation improved, and trusted buyers now compete for certain materials. I charge for risk, not for the pleasure of stealing from children.”

Jorik placed a sealed chest on the table. Maelor opened it to reveal wrapped books, glass instruments, mineral packets, and dark preservation cases.

“Advanced druidic collection, forty-eight Royals,” Maelor said. “Advanced healing compendium, seventy-eight. The copy was checked twice and includes every promised section.”

Maelor lifted a slimmer silver-bound volume. “The specialized Advanced Light Magic monograph cost thirty-two Royals. Its principal spell, Sunveil Refraction, bends and redirects direct sunlight around a person or object, washing away contrast and disrupting the target’s outline beneath clear daylight. Shade, heavy cloud, and darkness weaken it sharply.”

“Those limits are acceptable,” Cassian said.

I want the spell as a foundation rather than a finished answer.

Cassian’s fingers tightened around the edge of the healing volume before he could stop them. The reaction embarrassed him more because Maelor noticed and politely pretended not to notice.

My mother in my first life died while medicine that might have helped her remained behind prices I could never pay. Father lost his hand while fighting Ironclaw.

After his return I stood close enough to name the severed tendons, vessels, and nerves, yet remained powerless to restore any of them. I called this volume a research purchase because that sounded controlled. My fingers still held it like hope, and hope frightens me more than the price.

Maelor continued in his measured tone. “Anatomy studies cost twenty, Vital Force physiology twenty-seven, reference works nine, biological materials forty-two, mineral catalysts nineteen, precision equipment fourteen, and my sourcing fee twenty-one.”

“Three hundred ten Gold Royals,” Cassian said.

“Your previous credit was one hundred seventy. Today’s delivery raises the account to exactly three hundred ten. After this purchase, the account is empty.”

Jorik looked at the books. “A laborer could work a lifetime without handling that sum.”

“Most laborers live in Pennies and Groats,” Maelor said. “Ten Pennies make a Groat, ten Groats make a Silver Mark, and one hundred Marks make a Gold Royal.”

Cassian rested his palm on the sealed compendium. “One Royal therefore equals one thousand Groats or ten thousand Pennies. Nobody sensible uses one to purchase breakfast.”

“Royals buy horses, enchanted equipment, major contracts, and occasionally silence,” Maelor replied. “Craftsmen think in Marks. Successful adventurers and professional mages eventually learn to think in Royals.”

“A competent mage might earn five to twenty Royals each month,” Cassian said. “This order is more than a year even for a well-paid mage and several years for many professionals.”

“That is true for someone selling labor,” Maelor said. “You sell rare materials and results. Markets price what something accomplishes, not the age of the person who accomplished it.”

Money lets me acquire knowledge faster than an academy expects, but every purchase leaves a shape behind. Healing, anatomy, Vital Force, regeneration, and mana tolerance look like separate orders only until someone places the ledgers side by side. Maelor can hide my name. He cannot erase the pattern forever.

Maelor rested two fingers on a preservation case. “These ingredients suggest enhancement research. I need one answer. Is any unwilling person involved?”

“No human subject is involved. The work remains limited to preserved tissue, animal samples, and nonliving models.”

Maelor held his gaze, then nodded. “Keep it there until failure becomes something you understand instead of something another person suffers.”

“That is why I ordered the books.”

“Books explain what careful people discovered. Ambition explains why careless people ignore them. My conscience requires the reminder.”

Cassian glanced at the final charge. “Your conscience cost twenty-one Royals today.”

“My discretion cost twenty-one Royals. The conscience remains an inconvenient courtesy.”

Maelor pushed the handcart toward Cassian. “Return this before you leave the city. I am willing to conceal a supplier, not donate equipment whenever he discovers another stack of books.”

“I will return it without damage,” Cassian said, securing the purchases beneath canvas and lightening the load before entering the merchant streets.

“That promise worries me less than the possibility of improvement,” Maelor replied. “Please return the same cart.”

Veller’s Wayhouse stood west of the Guild district, where caravan offices, storage yards, and permanent shops competed for road traffic. Tomas had converted an old warehouse into a storefront, accounting room, and distribution yard.

Tomas Veller remained slightly overweight, balding, short-bearded, and carefully prosperous. He had recognized Cassian’s intelligence early, brought him books, and helped Frostwood sell its first inventions.

The moment Cassian entered the accounting room, Tomas abandoned his ledger and pulled him into a warm embrace. Cassian stiffened from surprise before awkwardly returning it with one arm.

“You grew again,” Tomas said. “I remember a five-year-old who ignored sweets and stared at my book crates like they contained royal treasure.”

Cassian stepped back, faintly embarrassed. “The books were more useful than the sweets.”

“That answer has not become less alarming with age.” Tomas waved toward a chair. “Sit down before you fall over. I have sales, complaints, three failed imitations, and one apothecary who offered marriage to the inventor.”

“Please reject the proposal on age, distance, and technical compatibility.”

“I rejected it on every ground available to civilized commerce.”

Tomas pushed three cracked ceramic pieces across the desk. “The imitations absorbed moisture for six days, grew mold on the eighth, and split a document chest on the tenth.”

Cassian examined one beneath the window light. “They copied the visible pattern, but the inner pores are too large and the salt distribution is uneven.”

“Which is why Tomas Veller does not sell copies made by optimistic fools.”

Tomas tapped the fresh delivery case. “How long did this month’s batch take you? There are enough inserts here to occupy a respectable workshop.”

“The respectable workshops make only the blanks,” Cassian said. “I prepare them in parallel, restructure the pores, place the salts, and form the hidden mana lattices across three concentrated manufacturing sessions.”

“So several potters perform the ordinary work, and one unreasonable child performs the part nobody can copy.”

“That description is commercially unhelpful, but technically accurate.”

Tomas lifted a small plate. “Remind me which buyers receive each model before my assistants invent a new category.”

“Small plates protect medicine cases and documents. Standard plates serve herbs, spices, bowstrings, and valuable cargo. Commercial systems link several active inserts through a wagon compartment, cabinet, or storage room.”

“And does the replacement cycle remain between nine and twelve months?” Tomas asked while turning the plate beneath the window light.

“Under ordinary use. The salts gradually saturate and the smallest channels lose efficiency. We can recondition some units, but damaged ones should be replaced rather than trusted with valuable cargo.”

Tomas nodded toward the cracked imitations. “Recurring demand without deliberate failure. That is the kind of honesty merchants can sell twice.”

“Tomorrow, my assistants begin sorting the next orders,” Tomas said. “Today, you will sit still while I open the ledger, pay you properly, explain why those boots offend every civilized street in Stagwatch, and make certain you understand every number.”

The business is becoming stable enough to outlive novelty. That should reassure me, yet stability creates its own trail: potters, buyers, replacements, caravans, and ledgers. I need to understand how this city moves before the academy makes city life permanent, and I need to keep one success from becoming a road back to Frostwood. I cannot afford to stop noticing the ordinary systems around me.

End of Chapter 37