The Figure behind the Coin

In the vaulted silence of a private East Aldenard Trading Company chamber, a parchment was placed before a man draped in desert finery and shadow. Candles flickered against golden embroidery; the scent of rare ink lingered as the seal was broken.

Lolorito Nanarito, Chairman of the Company, read in silence.

A convoy sabotaged. Supply lines threatened. Markets on edge. But the cargo arrived—delayed, yet undamaged. Unusual resistance from the escort team. One bodyguard in particular: a Lalafell with an axe and a sharp instinct for survival.

He read that line twice.

“Finn Verci,” murmured Lolorito, fingers tapping the report. Not a name he recognized. But the implications were clear: someone had miscalculated. And it wasn’t him.

Sabotage had a signature, even if names weren’t signed. Teledji, perhaps? Always too eager. Too clumsy. Lolorito set the scroll down.

“Ready my things,” he said softly to his retainer, not bothering to explain. “I’ll be inspecting the grounds personally.”

---

Ale, Shadows, and Philosophy

The Sapphire Exchange was winding down for the night, but the alehouse near its edge was still lively with workers, sellswords, and merchants who hadn’t struck gold that day.

Finn sat at the bar with a half-empty tankard and a sore shoulder. He’d been paid a bonus for the caravan job—enough to afford a night off and something that wasn’t bread and milk.

He didn’t notice the old Lalafell who took the seat beside him until he spoke.

“That was some fine axe work near the Highbridge. Word travels quick.”

Finn blinked. “And here I thought I fought in a sandstorm.”

“Dust settles. Stories stick.” The man had a calm, precise way of speaking—each word polished like coin. He wore no jewelry or signet, just a plain desert robe and a sharp look in his eyes. “Let me guess—you’re new to Ul’dah. Not from any house. No titles. But not stupid either.”

Finn sipped. “You’re observant.”

“I listen well.” The old man nodded at the barkeep. “Two more. On me.”

Finn gave a shrug of thanks. “You from the Syndicate?”

A faint chuckle. “What makes you think that?”

“You don’t look like a drunk, and you’re too polite to be a merchant.”

That earned a smile. “And you don’t fight like someone born in chains. Tell me, what do you want from Ul’dah?”

Finn paused. Then smirked. “You really want to know?”

“Genuinely.”

Finn leaned in a little. “This city state feels different the moment I set foot past its gates. I want to learn the system. How gil moves here. Why the rich stay rich and the poor stay hungry. And maybe…” He tilted his head, voice edged with mischief. “Steal a little back. Robin Hood it, you know?”

The old man’s smile faded just slightly. Not in anger, but calculation.

“Let me offer a thought,” he said, turning to face Finn. “The poor don’t stay poor because the rich are stealing. They stay poor because they have no stake in the machine. Take coin from one noble and hand it to a beggar—what changes? Nothing. It vanishes. But invest in a grain route, a textile loom, or a steady trade line… that’s value. That feeds cities.”

Finn looked at him sideways. “You a philosopher, or just another rich man with a justification?”

“I’ve been both,” the man said without blinking. “And I’ve seen what good intentions look like without structure. Dead men. Empty storehouses. Failed dreams.”

Finn said nothing for a long moment. Then gave a dry, quiet chuckle. “You sound like someone I should listen to. Assuming you’re not full of it.”

“Good instinct.” The man slid a small silver token across the bar toward him. It bore the sigil of the East Aldenard Trading Company.

“Come to this address tomorrow. Noon. Ask for no one, and say nothing fancy. Just bring your head, your hands… and that axe.”

The man slipped off the stool and walked out into the evening mist. Finn watched him go, brow furrowed.

“…who the hell was that?”