CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

Volume 2: The Road to the Academy

Chapter 38: What Tomorrow Requires

Afternoon light shifted across Tomas’s accounting room while the open Drykeep case waited between them.

“Now we settle what Stagwatch bought this month,” Tomas said. “Try not to look disappointed when arithmetic proves far more profitable than monster hunting.”

Cassian opened the case fully. Fresh plates rested in labeled stacks, while separate packets contained the smaller active inserts Tomas would fit into large commercial assemblies.

Tomas opened the monthly ledger. “Two hundred forty small plates averaged twenty Marks. One hundred ten standard plates averaged forty. Twenty commercial systems averaged one and one-half Royals.”

“Gross sales reached one hundred twenty-two Royals,” Cassian calculated.

“Materials, firing, transport, failures, and replacement reserves consumed fourteen. Distribution took thirteen. Your share is ninety-five Gold Royals.”

Tomas placed five Royals on the desk, each heavy coin bearing the Crown’s mint mark, then added a secured merchant draft for the remaining ninety.

“Ninety-five Royals in a pouch would make every thief in three districts interested in your education,” Tomas said. “Five coins handle emergencies. The draft handles civilization.”

Cassian touched one gold coin. “In Frostwood, even five Royals require an explanation.”

“Which is why our arrangement remains discreet. I visit villages, towns, and caravan markets. Your blanks appear to come from several workshops, and finished stock leaves through separate routes.”

Cassian glanced at the ledger. “Are sales still concentrated around Stagwatch?”

“Less than half now,” Tomas said. “The rest move through caravan masters, apothecaries, archives, bowyers, and merchants in smaller towns. That keeps one market from saturating and prevents anyone from tracing the supply to a single district.”

“Keep expansion gradual. Replacement demand should grow before new distribution does.”

Tomas smiled warmly. “You have become disturbingly good at saying things merchants need years to learn.”

Tomas’s warmth faded into concern. “Secrets protect people until they begin separating you from them.”

“I am trying to remember where protection ends and distance begins,” Cassian said.

That warning lands harder because Tomas is speaking as a friend rather than a merchant. I am earning enough to change my family’s life, yet I hide the scale because explaining the money would expose everything behind it. Protection becomes distance when the people being protected are never allowed to understand what they are losing.

Tomas’s gaze dropped to Cassian’s repaired cuff, patched shoulder, and wilderness-worn boots.

“Before we discuss the smaller case, are you planning to enter Caeldor dressed as a highly successful poacher?” Tomas asked, eyeing Cassian’s wilderness-worn boots. “The academy may test magic, but the city will examine your coat first.”

Cassian looked down at himself. “I intended to purchase something presentable today. I postponed it until I knew the account balance.”

“Practical, but visibly frontier practical.” Tomas pointed through the west window. “The Northward Needle keeps honest measurements and only mildly dishonest margins. Leave the cart in my stockroom while you walk.”

Cassian secured the books, components, Drykeep stock, and Freshkeep prototype behind Tomas’s warded inner door. He kept one Gold Royal and several Silver Marks, then followed the merchant’s directions into the cloth district.

I spent years treating clothing as protection from weather, thorns, sparks, and blood. At the academy, it will also become language. I dislike that truth, but refusing to speak a language does not prevent other people from interpreting the silence.

The Northward Needle displayed wool coats, city jackets, linen shirts, weatherproof cloaks, gloves, and boots polished beyond anything Cassian would wear into a forest.

Mistress Orena Dall, a square-shouldered tailor with silver spectacles, inspected his patched cuff, repaired shoulder, and road-stained boots. “Academy candidate, merchant’s apprentice, or young noble attempting humility?”

“Academy candidate from Frostwood,” Cassian answered. “I need clothing suitable for Caeldor that can survive travel, repeated cleaning, and several years of growth.”

Orena’s measuring cord paused. “Frostwood is a long way from city prices. Near-finished garments cost less than custom work, but a proper set still requires several dozen Marks. How much are you prepared to spend?”

A girl near the mirror examined him with the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She appeared close to his age, with dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and a fine gray traveling dress beneath a plain navy cloak.

“An entire academy wardrobe sounds ambitious for a village candidate,” the girl said. “Most applicants begin with one proper coat and hope nobody studies the rest.”

Cassian met her gaze. “Most applicants probably do not expect their clothing to survive workshops, roads, and monster blood.”

An assistant pulled a wool bolt from a high rack. The iron support tore free, and the loaded frame—six heavy bolts, a brass-edged mirror, and thick oak shelves—pitched toward Orena’s back.

It stopped before anyone finished drawing breath. Cloth billowed and dust hung motionless as the entire rack remained suspended a handspan above Orena’s shoulder inside invisible pressure.

Cassian shifted two fingers. The rack rotated upright, crossed the shop without touching the floor, and settled against the opposite wall. Only then did the iron peg strike the boards.

Orena turned slowly. “You prevented a serious injury. Lessa, secure every wall fitting before touching another bolt.”

The girl’s superiority vanished behind focused attention. “You used no incantation. There was no pause, no formed spell, and no visible structure.”

“It was not a formal spell,” Cassian replied.

“That is not an explanation.”

“It is the complete explanation I intend to give a stranger.”

For one heartbeat she stared, then amusement touched her mouth instead of offense. “At least Frostwood produces direct answers.”

Her female companion remained near the door in modest brown clothing, balanced like a trained fighter with one hand close to a concealed weapon.

Wealthy family, trained escort, deliberately plain clothing. Nobility is more likely than merchant wealth. She expected my village background to explain me until the rack fell. Now she wants to know why it did not.

Orena resumed measuring with greater care. Cassian chose two cream linen shirts, two charcoal pairs of trousers, a dark-blue wool coat, a lighter city jacket, reinforced boots, gloves, stockings, a belt, and a weatherproof cloak.

“Seventy-one Silver Marks after immediate alteration,” Orena said. “Payment before my assistants begin. I do not cut good cloth for promises.”

Cassian placed one Gold Royal coin on the counter.

Orena’s doubt disappeared beneath brisk hospitality. “Master Cassian, reinforced inner seams will serve you better. Lessa, bring stronger boot stitching, fresh wrapping paper, and tea. Leave growth allowance without spoiling the shoulders.”

Cassian counted twenty-nine Silver Marks in change. Paying for an academy wardrobe with physical coin felt stranger than purchasing rare materials through Maelor’s ledger.

The girl tilted her head. “You counted the change before the final coin landed.”

“One Royal equals one hundred Marks. Trust does not improve arithmetic.”

“That sounds like my father.” She extended one gloved hand. “I am Lysette. Since you object to answering strangers, I am reducing the category.”

Cassian shook her hand. “My name is Cassian. I turn ten before the entrance examination, so the academy permits me to apply during this season’s window.”

“Which branch interests you most?”

“Everything I can understand safely.”

“And the thing you did with the rack?”

“That part remains private.”

Lysette studied him like a locked door she intended to open. “Have you eaten? The pepper-hare stall near the covered market is better than the inns. You could explain why a private technique ignores every casting interval I have been taught.”

“No, thank you. I have business waiting, and I do not discuss private magic over lunch.”

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“Then do not discuss it.” Lysette glanced toward her companion. “Maraine, we are taking the covered market route.”

Cassian folded his arms. “Following the same street does not make this an invitation.”

“That is acceptable. I dislike owing invitations to people who refuse them.”

Two assistants altered near-finished garments while Lysette chose a practical green cloak. Maraine quietly prevented Orena from adding a silver stag clasp.

Less than half an hour later, Orena wrapped Cassian’s purchases, thanked him twice, and personally held the door.

Cassian turned toward the covered market to compare ingredient prices. Lysette and Maraine emerged behind him and took the same direction.

“You refused lunch,” Lysette said.

“I refused an interrogation disguised as lunch.”

“Then we agree. Lunch remains available.”

Under the market’s timber roofs, Cassian bought pepper-braised hare in hot flatbread for two Bronze Groats. Lysette ordered the same and occupied the opposite side of his standing table.

Cassian examined the green sauce. “What makes it dangerous?”

“The vendor calls pain a regional tradition. I respect tradition from a safe distance.”

Cassian tasted it anyway. Heat spread across his tongue, followed by smoke, vinegar, garlic, and sweetness.

“You ignored the warning.”

“I tested it. Those are different decisions.”

The stall relied on braised meat, consistent portions, and fast reheating. Cassian asked about ingredients, fuel, and spoilage until the vendor’s helpfulness became suspicion.

Lysette swallowed a laugh. “You truly are auditing lunch.”

“The imported pepper costs eight Marks for a small jar. Most of the price comes from meat, fuel, spoilage, and labor.”

“Most people decide whether food tastes good.”

“It tastes good. That makes understanding why it sells more useful.”

Lysette lowered her voice. “I was rude in the shop. When you said Frostwood, I assumed you were overreaching because your clothes looked poor.”

“They are practical clothes.”

“That is a polite way to confirm the accusation.”

“You corrected the conclusion after receiving better evidence. That is more useful than pretending you never formed it.”

Her expression softened. “You speak like one of my tutors, except they take longer to admit they judged someone.”

They moved among grain, oils, herbs, cheeses, preserved fish, medicinal roots, and southern fruit. Maraine followed close enough to intervene and far enough to let Lysette pretend the conversation was ordinary.

Freshkeep could change which goods survive distance, but it is too costly for ordinary food. Better containers, drying, fermentation, or reusable cooling packs might create wider markets without exposing the core technology.

Lysette stopped beside pale sunberries. “You looked at those as though they revealed a military weakness.”

“They bruise easily, spoil within days, and cost twelve Groats because half the shipment never reaches the city intact.”

“Would slatted trays reduce pressure on the lower fruit, or trap more heat?”

Cassian looked at her more carefully. “Both effects occur. The tray helps pressure and worsens temperature unless the sides vent properly.”

Lysette brightened at being taken seriously. “I assumed your answer about every branch was ambition. Now I think you simply dislike problems being allowed to remain problems.”

“That may be closer.”

A bell sounded from the northern rise. Maraine stepped nearer. “Miss Lysette, your father expects you before the fourth bell.”

“My father expects everyone before every bell.” Lysette looked at Cassian. “When you reach the academy, find me. I want to see whether you inspect the dining hall before eating.”

“You have given me only your first name.”

“Then consider finding me your first entrance examination.”

“Only if the academy posts enough information to make the problem fair.”

Lysette laughed and disappeared into the crowd beside Maraine. Cassian watched until the escort vanished, then carried his bundles toward Veller’s Wayhouse.

I still do not know her family name. She is almost certainly noble, and the interrupted stag clasp narrows the possibilities. More important, the academy has begun producing faces instead of remaining distant. Soon the wider world will become somewhere I must live.

* * *

Several streets away, Maraine guided Lysette into a plain enclosed carriage. After the door shut, the companion inclined her head formally.

“Lady Lysette, Marquess Marwick will ask why a fitting became lunch, a market survey, and a delayed return.”

Lysette settled opposite her. A silver stag marked the inner latch, and the reinforced panels belonged to House Marwick.

“I wanted to know whether Cassian was hiding formal casting or doing something my instructors cannot explain.”

“And what did you learn?”

“He caught a loaded rack before Orena turned. No incantation, no delay, no visible structure. Then he refused to explain it and calculated spoilage over lunch.”

Maraine’s mouth softened. “You also assumed a village boy could not afford Orena’s work.”

Lysette looked down at her gloves. “I made that assumption. He noticed, and he was kinder about it than I deserved.”

Most children become careful around my name or work too hard to prove they are unimpressed. Cassian argued before a title could decide the conversation, then treated my question about the sunberries seriously. I wanted information at first. Somewhere between the falling rack and the market, curiosity became less convenient.

“Find out who he is,” Lysette said. “Handle it discreetly. Use public records, academy applications, Guild notices, and merchant references only. Do not approach Frostwood, and do not let my father hear a mystery before we know whether one exists.”

“That will take time.”

“Then take your time. Haste would make it obvious.”

The carriage climbed toward Marwick Hall, carrying Lysette Marwick, daughter of Marquess Edran Marwick. No report had yet been gathered, but she had decided Cassian was worth finding again.

* * *

Back in Tomas’s accounting room, Tomas examined the dark-blue coat and nodded approval. Cassian placed both paid clothing bundles beside his warded purchases, kept the Silver Mark change in a separate pouch, and watched Tomas reach for the smaller commercial case.

He released the lower catches beneath the Drykeep tray and opened the padded compartment containing the Freshkeep prototype. “Did you obtain the Aetherium wire, Veyrite fragments, insulating resin, and silver channel sheets?”

Tomas pointed toward labeled parcels. “Enough for six prototypes. The materials cost more than your family’s first house, which I mention because you have become disturbingly calm around expensive things.”

Cassian placed a compact metal-lined chest on the table.

I tested the system through heat, impact, depleted reserves, damaged channels, and deliberate misuse. None of that makes Tomas’s judgment unimportant. A device can survive my workshop and still fail the moment ordinary people trust medicine, money, or a life to it. I want him impressed, and that desire makes me nervous enough to feel nine again.

“This is not another Drykeep Plate,” he said.

“Your face suggests either greater profit or a contained explosion.”

“The two possibilities are not mutually exclusive, but this version passed every pressure and heat test.”

Cassian touched the recessed control. Freshkeep activated with a clear crystalline tone. Pale-blue lines spread through the walls as a Veyrite reserve fed channels designed to carry heat away from the inner chamber.

The exterior warmed beneath Tomas’s palm. Inside, air cooled without freezing, and brief condensation vanished as humidity stabilized.

Cassian placed a warm cup inside, closed the lid, and waited. When Tomas opened it again, cool mist curled across the rim and the liquid had fallen to cellar temperature.

Tomas stared into the chest without speaking.

Why is he not saying anything? Did the outer frame warm too quickly? Is the condensation lasting longer than it did during testing? I would rather face another Ruin-class monster than sit here while a merchant decides whether my work has failed.

“How long does one charge last?” Tomas asked at last.

“Three days under ordinary use, less if opened constantly. The standard chest holds this temperature across roughly one hundred twenty liters.”

“What happens when the reserve empties?”

“Cooling fades gradually. It cannot freeze the contents because the regulator closes before the inner temperature reaches that threshold.”

“Can an ordinary mage recharge it?”

“A trained mage can use the charging plate. A merchant without mana needs a shop or service station. The Veyrite is shock-mounted, but wagon impacts still require inspection every six months.”

Tomas tapped the warm exterior. “What happens if the system fails?”

“The channels open and release stored mana harmlessly through the outer frame. The chest becomes an insulated box rather than an explosive one.”

“What replacement guarantee are we offering?”

“One year for the core, six months for fittings damaged by ordinary travel. Abuse voids both.”

Tomas leaned back, eyes brightening. “Cassian, do you understand what merchants pay to prevent one shipment of medicine from spoiling?”

“I calculated several price ranges.”

“Your calculations always underestimate desperation and greed. Ten Royals for the core alone. Eighteen for a standard fitted chest. Thirty for medical precision. Forty or more for a reinforced caravan unit.”

Cassian tried to keep his expression neutral and failed to hide a small smile. “That matches my upper estimate.”

“We begin with two standard chests and one medical system each month. Your initial net should remain between twenty and thirty-five Royals. If reliability survives a year, controlled production could reach fifty to eighty.”

“No rapid expansion. Too much volume attracts guilds, noble investors, and enchanters who dislike mysteries.”

Tomas smiled warmly rather than dryly. “A profitable mystery is a future investigation wearing good manners. I will choose the first buyers myself.”

He closed the chest and studied Cassian with open wonder. “The first primer I gave you only explained how to sense mana. I thought I was encouraging a clever village boy.”

“You encouraged exactly the boy you met.”

“Then the boy has exceeded reasonable commercial limits.”

Cassian’s smile widened. “The limits have remained negotiable.”

Cassian left the completed Freshkeep prototype with Tomas for controlled trials, along with written charging limits, inspection intervals, and failure procedures. The Aetherium, Veyrite, resin, and silver-channel materials for the next six units remained packed for Cassian’s manufacturing chamber.

After arranging the first Freshkeep orders, Cassian loaded his research purchases, component parcels, and two clothing bundles onto the lightened handcart, then returned it to The Brass Measure’s enclosed courtyard. Jorik inspected the axle, both wheels, and even the handles before admitting it was unchanged.

“It is the same cart,” Cassian said.

“You promised to return it without damage,” Jorik replied. “That sounded dangerously different from returning it without improvements.”

From the concealed courtyard, Cassian lifted his purchases into a stable pressure frame and rose through the mapped aerial corridor, using warehouse roofs, smoke, and lingering cloud to break every watchtower’s line of sight.

Wind Shell formed again around his body and cargo. Pressure settled, cold slid across the outer boundary, and Stagwatch diminished beneath layered vapor as ambient mana accelerated him northward through the high clear sky.

He returned to the hidden mountain before Frostwood’s evening meal. The immense entrance stone rose once more amid a low cliff-deep groan, falling dust, and trembling gravel, then settled back into place after Cassian entered.

He stored the druidic collection and Sunveil Refraction monograph in the warehouse archive, then carried the healing, anatomy, and Vital Force volumes into the dedicated research sector. Reinforced work bays stood behind separate stone doors, containing heat, contamination, and failed reactions.

Cassian opened anatomical diagrams beside preserved muscle, tendon, bone, blood vessels, and nerve samples. He separated regenerative compounds from mana-responsive minerals, then recorded every concentration before touching the first instrument.

A little less than one watch remained before his promised return time, and reopening the entrance, resealing the cave, and reaching Frostwood would consume part of it. He would prepare only the baseline sample, leave the longer observation to sealed instruments, and keep the promise he had made over breakfast.

Stronger muscle alone could tear ordinary tendons. Denser bone could become brittle instead of durable. Faster nerves could overload the brain, while uncontrolled regeneration could transform improvement into disease. I cannot strengthen one system and assume the rest will forgive it. A human body survives through cooperation, not isolated excellence.

I could increase force long before I could guarantee safety. That is the most dangerous temptation in this chamber. One successful sample might persuade me that an entire living body will obey the same rules, and one desperate person might volunteer before either of us understands what failure truly means.

He looked toward the sealed cases, imagining Gareth’s missing hand, Lena’s careful strength, Darren’s restless energy, and Elara’s future beyond Frostwood. None of them would become convenient proof that his theory worked.

I am not creating strength that destroys its owner. Failure remains inside glass until I understand it. No volunteer, no family member, and no desperate stranger will become the price of my impatience. I want to help Father. I want to protect Mother, Darren, and Elara from injuries I can already imagine. Wanting that badly is exactly why I must refuse every shortcut.

Cassian opened the Advanced healing compendium beside his accumulated notes and prepared the smallest controlled tissue sample.

Strength was easy to imagine. Making a human body survive it was the real experiment.

End of Chapter 38