The changes started in the market square.
Zeke noticed them during a routine visit, when a merchant he'd known for years suddenly found urgent business elsewhere the moment their eyes met. The man's apprentice, less practiced in discretion, had been in the middle of a conversation that died abruptly upon his approach.
By the time he returned to his estate, three more such incidents had occurred. A supplier who'd been eager to discuss expansion plans only weeks ago now claimed his inventory was committed elsewhere. A prominent shipwright crossed the street rather than share the walkway. Even the merchant where he'd purchased tea leaves seemed nervous, wrapping his order with unusual haste.
[Pattern detected]
Social avoidance has increased by a hundred and sixty-seven percent over the past week.
Zeke stood in his study, glancing at the web of connections Akasha had mapped across his wall. Each line represented a relationship, a contract, a social tie. Too many had shifted from green to amber. A disturbing number glowed red.
"Tell me the rumors you've heard," he commanded.
Words materialized in the air, snippets of conversation gathered by his Sphere of Awareness:
"...placed bounties on Imperial citizens like a common thug..."
"...counts that creature from the Deadlands among his patrons..."
"...practically lives with the elves, probably sharing our secrets..."
"...endorsed by one of those beasts of the wilds, can you imagine..."
"...no wonder he has no regard for proper civilization..."
Each accusation was built upon a kernel of truth, twisted just enough to poison.
Yes , he'd placed bounties on the four great families—after they'd murdered his mentor, named him a criminal, and stripped him of his name.
Yes , he knew Sheol Veylor, who had helped him more than once.
Yes , he had connections with elves and dwarves—legitimate trade relationships that benefited Tradespire.
Yes , Winter had endorsed him, an honor that few humans had ever received.
But context, apparently, was irrelevant when spreading rumors.
The study door opened quietly. Maya entered with uncharacteristic hesitation, a sealed letter clutched in her hands. The formal crest of the Tradus Academy was visible even from across the room.
"It's a rejection," she said before he could ask. Her voice carried forced lightness, but her knuckles were white around the parchment. "They said my application was 'impressive but unsuitable.' The exact same words they used for Thomen's application yesterday."
Zeke's jaw tightened. The Tradus Academy had been courting his household just last month, eager to claim credit for training the newly awakened. Now they found Maya, a Greater affinity mage from a Merchant Lord's house, unsuitable?
"What about the others?" he said quietly.
Maya produced a small stack from her satchel. Rejection after rejection, each worded with painstaking politeness. Every major academy in Tradespire had suddenly discovered reasons why none of the awakened from his household quite met their standards.
[Analysis]
Correlation indicates coordinated response. Probability of coincidence: less than 0.3 percent.
"It's because of me," Zeke said, the words tasting like ash. "They're going after the entire house."
Maya moved closer, her expression fierce despite her youth. "They're idiots. We don't need them anyway."
But they did need them, or something equivalent. Twenty-five newly awakened mages required proper education, guidance, and structure. Akasha could only accomplish so much. Despite her profound knowledge, she wasn't a replacement for a proper teacher, not in the long term.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. One of the household guards entered, his usually confident bearing noticeably subdued.
"My lord, there's a... situation at the main gate."
The noise reached them before they even stepped onto the grounds. A low rumble of voices, punctuated by occasional shouts and what sounded disturbingly like patriotic songs. Zeke climbed the wall's inner stairs to look over the parapet, and what he saw made his hands clench.
A crowd had gathered outside, at least forty people, possibly more. They weren't quite blocking the entrance, but they'd positioned themselves close enough that anyone entering or leaving would have to push through them. Some held hastily painted signs: "PROTECT TRADESPIRE'S NEUTRALITY" and "CONCERNED CITIZENS WATCH."
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"Lord von Hohenheim!" A well-dressed man near the front called out, his voice carrying clearly. "We're are here as concerned citizens, keeping watch to ensure no foreign agents slip in or out of your estate. Given your... extensive connections with foreign powers, surely you understand our patriotic duty?"
The man's tone dripped with false sincerity. Behind him, others took up the cry.
"We know the elves visit here!"
"How many secrets have you sold?"
"We'll stay here day and night if we must! Tradespire's safety comes first!"
[Analysis]
Crowd composition includes several individuals with connections to Ambassador Azra's social circle.
Zeke's jaw tightened as he watched them. They were careful, so very careful, to remain just within the bounds of legality. They weren't technically blocking access. They weren't making direct threats. They were simply "concerned citizens" exercising their right to peaceful assembly.
"Shall I scatter them?" his guard asked quietly.
Zeke almost said yes, then caught himself. That was exactly what they wanted. The sight of a Merchant Lord using armed forces against "peaceful protestors" would spread through the city like wildfire. By morning, every salon would be discussing how the volatile Lord von Hohenheim had tried to suppress legitimate concerns through force.
"No," he said, the word tasting bitter. "Let them stand."
But the damage was already being done. As he watched, a delivery wagon approached, took one look at the crowd, and turned away. The driver probably had a family to feed—he couldn't risk being associated with controversy. How many more would make the same choice?
The crowd began another song, this one about Tradespire's impartiality and the merchants who upheld it. Several voices seemed professionally trained, ensuring the words carried clearly:
"…Our city stands alone and free, No foreign chains shall bind us! We watch for those who'd sell our souls, And stand where light can find us!"
[Notice]
Psychological warfare detected. Sustained noise levels designed to disrupt household operations. Rotating shifts suggest 24-hour presence planned.
The implications crashed over Zeke like cold water. They could maintain this indefinitely. Every visitor would have to brave the gauntlet of accusatory stares and shouted questions. Every delivery would be noted, every guest catalogued. His estate would become, in effect, under siege.
And if he acted against them, if he used force, or magic, or even harsh words, he would confirm every whisper Azra had seeded. The barbarian lord who couldn't tolerate legitimate civic concern. The violent outsider who threatened peaceful citizens.
"My lord," another guard approached, slightly out of breath. "There's another group forming at the eastern service entrance. Smaller, but growing."
Of course. They would surround him completely, all while maintaining perfect legality. A prison of public opinion, bars made of careful words and strategic positioning.
Zeke descended from the wall, his mind racing through possibilities. He could try to wait them out, but Azra's resources ran deep. He could attempt negotiations, but that would legitimize their presence. He could file complaints through proper channels, but the law was technically on their side.
"Double the guards," he ordered quietly. "But keep them inside the walls. No one is to engage with the crowd unless they attempt to breach the grounds."
"Yes, my lord."
He returned to find Maya still in his study, her face pressed against the window, watching the crowd below. "They're still singing," she said, a note of disbelief in her voice. "How can they just... stand there and lie like that?"
"Because the best lies are mostly truth," Zeke replied, sinking into his chair. "We do have foreign connections. Representatives of other powers do visit. They've taken facts and painted them in the worst possible light."
"But you're not a spy!"
"No. But proving a negative is impossible. And every denial would just spread their accusations further."
As evening fell, the crowd showed no signs of dispersing. If anything, it had grown. Zeke noticed the subtle logistics at work—people arriving with food baskets, others setting up small braziers for warmth, a rotation system ensuring fresh voices for their chants and songs.
This was no spontaneous gathering. This was an organized siege.
A message arrived as full darkness settled, delivered by a nervous courier who had clearly been questioned extensively by the crowd. The paper was expensive, the handwriting familiar.
Lord von Hohenheim,
I was distressed to hear about the difficulties your household has encountered recently. It pains me to see such promising young Mages struggle to find proper educational placement.
Should you find yourself reconsidering our earlier discussion about cooperation, I remain willing to use my influence to smooth these unfortunate misunderstandings. After all, we both want what's best for those young mages.
The concerned citizens outside your gates are simply exercising their rights, as I'm sure you understand. A few words from someone they trust could easily address their worries and send them home to their families.
With sincere concern,
Azra von Hohenheim
The letter crumbled in Zeke's fist. The sheer audacity of it: orchestrating the mob, then offering to call it off in exchange for capitulation. And all wrapped in concern and civility.
[Notice]
I suggest Host relocate the Household for the time being.
"No," Zeke said aloud. "I won't be driven from my own home."
But what options remained? The crowd would make business nearly impossible. Who would risk association with a lord under such public scrutiny? Every day they remained was another day of isolation, another turn of the screw.
Through the window, their latest song drifted up:
"We stand on guard for Tradespire's soul, No gold can buy our silence! We watch the gates where shadows creep, And offer our defiance!"
Professional singers, definitely. The verses were too polished, the harmonies too perfect for a spontaneous gathering.
Maya found him still standing there hours later, a crumpled letter at his feet. Outside, the crowd had settled in for the night, their fires dotting the street like accusatory eyes.
"You’ll find another way," she said quietly. "You always do."
He wished he shared her confidence. But as the night deepened and the chants continued, each one a perfectly legal expression of civic concern, Zeke began to understand the true brilliance of Azra's strategy.
It wasn't meant to destroy him outright. It was meant to make him destroy himself, either by lashing out and validating every whispered concern, or by being slowly suffocated by perfectly legal harassment until only the name remained.
And the worst part? Zeke could see no clean counter. For perhaps the first time since taking his Merchant Lord seat, he found himself truly trapped. His downfall had come as silk and poison rather than steel and fire.
The spider of Arkanheim had woven his web well.