The voices of his guests washed over Zeke like waves against a cliff face, each promise more extravagant than the last.
"…We will order five today, and another ten if the first live up to the promised standards."
"…Just give me every single one you have."
"…I'll foot the bill personally if I have to, but send them over by the end of the day."
"…Have you thought about an exclusivity deal? We could give you millions, just for the guarantee."
"…If there's one thing Korrovan doesn't lack, it's gold. Just name your price to make us your first customer, and you'll see it appear before you."
Zeke maintained his composure, though his pulse quickened with each declaration. The dignified figures before him, each representing nations that had endured for millennia, were practically falling over themselves to secure his invention. Their eagerness spoke volumes about what they had witnessed today.
Still, he knew better than to take their words at face value. Until the ink had dried and seals bound the agreements, promises remained as ephemeral as morning mist. He had seen many deals evaporate when enthusiasm met reality.
Even so, Zeke could already tell one thing for certain: The decision to pivot from private customers to national contracts had proven wise beyond his initial calculations.
Where an individual might balk at spending thousands, these ancient hegemonies treated millions as mere line items in their vast military budgets. The strongest armies required the best equipment, and cost became secondary to capability.
Before the bidding could spiral into chaos, Zeke raised his hand. The gesture cut through the cacophony with surgical precision. The sudden quiet reminded him of conducting an orchestra, every instrument stilled by a single motion, waiting for the next movement to begin.
"Though I'm flattered by your interest," he began, measuring each word carefully, "in the name of transparency, I must confess something. The Wraith you saw today is currently the only existing model. Production of a second has not yet begun, as we only completed the final tests last night."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Lara Sonnenstrahl's eyes, which had been blazing with the intensity of her namesake, dimmed to mere embers. Beside her, Tristan Bloodsword’s frame went rigid, the excitement that had been animating his features draining away like water through a sieve. These two needed the ship urgently—their soldiers were dying for want of supplies.
"That..." Lara's voice faltered, her usual eloquence deserting her. She swallowed, tried again. "What..." But the words wouldn't come.
Tristan proved more composed, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his disappointment. "What is the production schedule going to look like?" The question emerged steady, professional, but Zeke heard the undercurrent of desperation beneath it. Neither commander expected good news. The waiting period for the Gondola had stretched for months, and that had been a far simpler vessel.
Zeke allowed himself a small smile. "I estimate being able to produce one model per week during the first month."
"One a week?" Albert's weathered face creased with skepticism, though not the kind born of disbelief. The old diplomat's confusion ran deeper than that.
"Initially, yes. Later, we will scale production according to demand."
Albert's gaze sharpened, and Zeke saw the moment understanding dawned. The elderly man wasn't questioning the claim because he thought it false: quite the opposite. He knew Zeke spoke the truth, and that knowledge clearly unsettled him.
Zeke's attention flicked briefly to the bird that had suddenly appeared on Albert's shoulder. Truthseeker ruffled its feathers, the emerald embedded in its forehead catching the light. The Mind Spirit's gift was both a blessing and a curse in negotiations. It could detect lies with unerring accuracy, turning every conversation into a minefield for those who dealt in deception. For Zeke, who had built his plans on foundations of truth, the familiar served as an invaluable ally.
Every eye in the room locked onto that small jewel. The gem had never shifted from its verdant hue. Not once had it detected even the slightest falsehood.
"How is this possible?" Kaveen Raja's usual composure cracked, genuine bewilderment seeping through.
Zeke's smile widened. "It's no big secret, honestly, and I'm sure you'll even be pleased to hear this, Mr. Raja."
The Korrovan noble's perfectly groomed eyebrows rose in silent question.
"Most of the ship's parts will be produced in the newly established workshops of Undercity," Zeke explained, watching realization dawn across Kaveen's features. "Only the final assembly will take place here in Tradespire."
The implications struck the man like a physical blow, though he masked it well. Zeke had just revealed that the former slaves and outcasts of Undercity had developed manufacturing capabilities sophisticated enough to produce components for the most advanced airship ever created. More importantly, since Zeke paid fair wages rather than exploiting their labor, a significant portion of the profits would flow directly into Korrovan's economy.
If the thought of enriching former slaves bothered him, his face betrayed nothing. Then again, Zeke reflected, to someone of Kaveen's station, there might be little distinction between common citizens and slaves. Their coin all eventually found its way to royal treasuries regardless.
"What about this one?" Tristan's voice cut through Zeke's musings, one large hand gesturing toward the Wraith perched behind them.
Zeke shook his head slowly. "It is not for sale."
The last glimmer of hope extinguished in Tristan's eyes. His shoulders sagged, a commander already calculating how many more soldiers would die before supplies could reach them. Beside him, Lara's jaw clenched, her fingers curling into fists before she forced them to relax.
But Zeke wasn't finished. He had spent long nights considering the prototype's fate, weighing gold against influence, immediate profit against long-term gain. A million gold was substantial, certainly, but if he could transform that single ship into something far more valuable...
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"It is not for sale," he repeated, letting the words hang in the air for a heartbeat. "But I would be willing to loan it out."
Twin sparks of hope ignited in the commanders' eyes. "Loan it?" Tristan leaned forward, his voice carefully controlled. "For how much?"
"For free."
"Free?" The word emerged from both commanders simultaneously, their heads snapping toward Truthseeker with almost comical synchronization.
The crystal remained stubbornly, impossibly green.
Zeke allowed mock offense to color his tone. "What? Now you treat me like a profiteer? After the millions I've spent fielding my own crusade against the Empire? After we've stood side by side for so long?"
Shame flickered across their faces, though Zeke's words had been spoken in jest. He understood their caution. This was typically the moment when merchants tightened the screws, extracting maximum profit from desperate customers. But Zeke had learned long ago that sometimes the most profitable path wasn't the most obvious one.
"Instead of paying me a single copper," he continued, his voice growing serious, "I want you to use this Wraith to make sure every frontline base gets their resources on time. I don't want to hear that a single soldier went hungry. Do we have a deal?"
Lara's hand shot forward before he finished speaking, her calloused palm clasping his forearm with surprising strength. Tristan's much larger hand engulfed them both a moment later, the gesture sealing more than mere words ever could.
"You have my word." Lara's voice carried the weight of someone who had never broken a promise.
"And mine." Tristan's rumble held the same gravity.
Zeke nodded, satisfaction warming his chest. He could read the naked gratitude in their expressions, the relief that went beyond a mere favor. They saw this as generosity, perhaps even charity. But only because they couldn't see what he saw.
In his mind's eye, Zeke could already picture it: exhausted soldiers huddled in muddy trenches, their eyes turning skyward at the sound of engines. The sleek black silhouette of the Wraith materializing from storm clouds like divine intervention. Hands reaching upward as supplies dropped from its hold: food for the starving, medicine for the wounded, ammunition for the desperate.
The Wraith would become legend.
Every allied soldier along the front would learn to associate that distinctive profile with salvation. When they spoke of the war in taverns years hence, they would tell stories of the black ship that appeared when all seemed lost. That image would be seared into thousands of hearts, spread through letters home, whispered in barracks and command tents alike.
How long before officers demanded their own? How long could high command ignore the reports of a single ship accomplishing what entire supply convoys could not? When soldiers started refusing assignments to units without Wraith support, when casualty rates plummeted in sectors where the ship operated, how could they afford not to buy?
Today's demonstration had convinced a handful of elites. This loan would ensure that every rank, from fresh recruits to seasoned generals, experienced firsthand what guaranteed supplies meant. After that first taste of reliability, returning to the old ways would feel like stepping backward into darkness.
Both Lara and Tristan had already committed to purchasing one of the first four units produced, even if it meant emptying their personal coffers. That would ensure their troops wouldn't starve after the prototype's month-long loan ended. But Zeke suspected those two ships would be merely the beginning of a flood of orders.
The remaining two units from the first month's production were already spoken for: Alfred had claimed one for Invocatia, while Kaveen had secured another for Korrovan.
Though Invocatia's forward bases faced similar supply challenges, their situation was far less desperate. The presence of Aurellia Thorsten provided a different kind of security. The Eternal Witch's reputation alone served as a deterrent. Few enemies dared test someone rumored to match even Exarchs in power.
Her bases would hold unless she permitted otherwise.
Zeke found himself regretting her absence from today's gathering. Witnessing the legendary Archmage's reaction to the Wraith would have been fascinating. Still, Albert's presence had proven invaluable. The old diplomat's familiar hadn't merely verified Zeke's honesty. It had also confirmed that none of his guests harbored deceptive intentions.
With orders placed and delivery schedules negotiated, the atmosphere in the chamber shifted from tense negotiation to something more collegial. The change was most pronounced in Lara and Tristan, who seemed to shed years of accumulated stress with each glance toward their newly acquired Wraith.
The conversation drifted to lighter topics as servants brought in elaborate refreshments. No one seemed eager to leave, the successful conclusion of business leaving space for the kind of informal networking that often proved as valuable as any contract.
"…It's just a shame," Tristan remarked eventually, swirling amber liquid in his glass. "As a Merchant Lord, you won't be able to keep the Empire from getting their hands on this as well, will you?"
Zeke's lips quirked upward. "You would think so..."
The room's attention snapped back to him like iron filings to a lodestone. Lara's eyes regained their mischievous glint, a fox scenting something interesting. "Tell me honestly, Zeke. Do you have a way to prevent the Empire from acquiring the Wraith?”
"Of course not," Zeke denied instantly, his tone carrying just the right note of offended propriety. "That would go against the neutrality of Tradespire. And I, as an upstanding Merchant Lord, am bound by that promise just as tightly as the city itself."
"Then?" Tristan's brow furrowed, parsing the contradictions in Zeke's response.
Zeke lifted his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "Contracts are complicated things. There are clauses, sub-clauses, and sub-sub-clauses. It's truly a labyrinthine mess. So, if there were—purely hypothetically—complications that made such a trade problematic, I might need to refrain from delivering my goods to certain parties."
Understanding dawned differently on each face. Tristan's expression remained skeptical, his straightforward mind struggling with the maze of implications. Lara, more versed in the dance of politics, caught on immediately.
"…And do you foresee such complications?" she asked, her tone matching his studied innocence.
Zeke's hands performed an elaborate gesture of uncertainty. "Contracts are really not my area of expertise," he lied shamelessly. "I suppose we'll discover the answer once the Empire comes knocking."
Tristan still looked dubious, but Lara's wink spoke volumes. "I'll be counting on you!"
Zeke arranged his features into poorly acted bewilderment. "I have no idea what you might be talking about, Miss Sonnenstrahl. Unless you're referring to my diligence in following the law to the letter. In that case, you can count on me fully."
Lara's snort of amusement broke the tension, and even Tristan seemed to reach a decision. The commander raised his glass in a silent toast before draining the dwarven brew in a single impressive swallow. They both understood not to probe further; Zeke wouldn't incriminate himself, regardless of what plans might be percolating behind his carefully neutral expression.
As the afternoon stretched toward evening, Zeke invited Jettero and the other engineers to join them. His team could answer technical questions about the Wraith's construction while he observed the interplay of personalities. He had given them permission to speak freely. After all, the truly critical elements remained his alone.
Without his trade contracts with the Elven Matriarchy, the Dwarven strongholds, and the personally inscribed Enchantment Slates, the blueprints were nothing precious.
This transparency served a dual purpose: it demonstrated supreme confidence while subtly reinforcing his monopoly. Those who guarded secrets too jealously often revealed their weakness. By opening his doors wide, Zeke showed he had nothing to fear.
The night deepened around them, candles replacing sunlight as conversations drifted between professional matters and personal anecdotes. Tristan and Lara lingered the longest, their relief slowly shifting into something like celebration as the reality of their success took hold. When they finally departed with the Wraith in tow, Zeke didn’t burden them with paperwork. For these two, their word carried more weight than any contract.
Besides, he had no desire to create a paper trail proving he had aided one side in a war. If he simply loaned a friend a ship, without a contract or price attached, it would be far harder to find fault with him, especially if the vessel appeared to be a product available for anyone to purchase.
As the black ship vanished into the night, carrying hope to desperate soldiers, Zeke allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
The seeds were planted. Now he need only wait for the harvest.
“I wonder how long it will take…”