The thought of the dwarven clans' reaction made Bach Bronzehammer's knees weak. He set the barrel down, eyes blazing with excitement. "Lord Sean, is this true? You've really recreated dwarven spirits?"
"See for yourself." Sean nodded to Windsor, who fetched a cup and poured a generous serving of Holy Flame Spirit.
"Heh, don't mind if I do—this is no small matter!" Bach's hands trembled as he took the cup, draining it in one gulp. The 67-proof alcohol seared his throat, but as a Bronze Peak warrior, he barely flinched.
"By the forge!" he gasped, smacking his lips. "This is fresh—new spirits, not century-old rot. Moira will regret leaving me for that miner when she hears about this! Er… anyway—will you sell the recipe to the Dwarven Kingdom?"
Sean smiled, "Why sell the recipe when I can sell the finished product? Monopolies are lucrative."
Bach laughed, "I'm a blacksmith, but even I know a human lord can't hold such a secret. Not an insult—just reality."
"Sharp as your axes, Bach. I will sell the recipe, which is why I need you as our middleman. This barrel is just the first of your rewards."
Bach cradled the barrel, already planning. "I'll contact the Dwarven Kingdom's envoy in Laine! He oversees all dwarves here—Sky Rank, no less. I'll use the Mage Guild's teleport network. He can be in Yorn by nightfall."
"Sky Rank?" Sean feigned surprise. "Paromia's 843 leagues from Yorn, mountains in between. Only a Sky Rank could fly here that fast."
"Lord Sean, you miss nothing!" Bach grinned, impressed.
"Secrecy, Bach. Breathe a word of this, and the Light won't save you from my wrath."
"Understood!" Bach bowed, already dreaming of his place in dwarven history. "A century of thirst ends tonight! Thank you for this gift to our kingdom."
After Bach left, Sean discussed with Windsor, "If the envoy is Sky Rank, he could deter Brody. But we can't rely on it."
Windsor relaxed, "Then cancel the supply run? I'll stay to guard you—"
"No." Sean's tone sharpened. "Prepare as planned. The envoy might steal the recipe. This world respects strength, not promises. We retreat and negotiate. If he agrees, we recall you. If not, we still have a fallback."
"Understood, My Lord."
Steward Henry waited outside the parlor, already having purchased flowers, ale, and glass bottles. "The stills are set up in the backyard, My Lord."
"Excellent. Let's begin." Sean clapped, shifting focus to perfume production—another pillar of his luxury empire.
As they walked, Henry ventured, "The dwarves… do you truly trust them?"
"Trust? No." Sean smiled, darkly amused. "But their greed for spirits matches our need for protection. A partnership of convenience—safer than relying on nobles or mercenaries."
Meanwhile, Bach raced to the Mage Guild, barrel hidden, mind racing. Sky Rank envoy Orgrim Ironfist would arrive soon, drawn by the scent of revival. Dwarven politics were about to shift, and Bach Bronzehammer would be the architect.
In the guild's teleport chamber, he chanted the runes, sending a message blazing across the mountains: "Orgrim! Dwarven spirits live again. Come to Yorn—now."
Sean stood in the backyard, watching Kyle refine rose essence into perfume, Nebula chirping at his side. The dragonlet's scales shimmered, unaware of the diplomatic storm brewing.
Sky Rank envoy, dwarven spirits, firearms— Sean thought, so many threads. One wrong pull, and the tapestry unravels. But for now…
He inhaled the scent of roses, mingling with the distant aroma of Bach's stolen spirits. *For now, every gamble was a step toward survival. And in a world where even allies could turn, survival required more than strength—it required options.
As the first drops of perfume filled a glass vial, Sean smiled. Options, and a very drunk dwarf blacksmith.