Chapter 29: A spy?
In the southwestern quadrant of the city, tucked deep behind markets and alleys now drenched in silence, stood the Zorthar Mansion.
It was a symbol of wealth carved through blood, debt, and steel. Its towering walls were draped in shadows of armed mercenaries who were paid to guard the Mansion.
The Zorthar family did not trust the locals to guard their treasure. No, these mercenaries were imported and hardened killers from across the continent, paid handsomely to guard the estate and silence intruders without hesitation.
Still, the family had no shortage of local thugs. These roughnecks were less for security and more for tasks involving torture, intimidation, or retrieval. They enforced the family’s grip on the money-lending business, especially when borrowers missed payments. Some broke bones, some broke spirits, but all did so in the Zorthar name.
Inside the mansion, the air reeked of luxury. Gilded furniture, shining marble floors, and chandelier light displays adorned every corner, not just to indulge in wealth, but to prove something that the Zorthar wealth was meant to scream in the face of nobles: "A commoner can rise. A peasant can rule."
At the heart of this display sat Mikhail Zorthar, head of the family and its cold-blooded architect. He reclined in a chair carved from rare wood, resting atop an elegant rug woven by renowned artisans from the west. Yet none of this mattered to him. His attention was on the thick bundles of paper laid out across his oversized desk.
A man known more for his mind than his fists, Mikhail had not fought his way to the top, he had outsmarted everyone who stood in his way.
The Zorthar family had once been humble woodcutters, with lending as a small side trade. That side trade soon made more than timber. And if one could cut a tree, so could one cut a man.
Through fear and numbers, they expanded by absorbing inns, coercing businesses, bleeding the city dry one deal at a time.