Prologue - Greywake Perspective
Under the misty morning sun at Clairview International, a Herwan luxury limousine glides from a private hangar to the highway overpass. Inside, three Prestoreans from Greywake Systems — a maritime systems manufacturer — sit in dimly lit comfort, having just offloaded from their private flight. Faux-leather seats, complimentary refreshments, and rain-specked windows accompany their smooth ride toward the Herwan Corporate Commission.
“Funny how every port city looks the same till you read their ledgers,” the first man remarks, adjusting his spotless boots with a casual stretch. “The air still stinks of fish and ozone, but here — the paperwork’s more flexible than the steel they export.”
“That makes it all the better for us,” the second mutters, eyes locked on his laptop. “No regulators, no inquiries, no teeth. Herwa calls it ‘economic liberty.’ We can call it a quarterly bonus.”
“You make it sound like a brochure,” the third retorts dryly. “All gloss, no spine.”
“Oh come now, Colan,” the first man laughs — Cedric Halmar, the CEO’s son and unmistakably proud of it. “My father gave you the stage. Aren’t you here to make that résumé shine? Don’t get modest on us now.”
He relaxes into his seat, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Herwa’s a parade ground. We’re marching in — arms full of plausible deniability. Form H3 is our drumbeat.”
“Declaration of Incorporation for Foreign Trade Entities Operating with Self-Insurance and No Intention to Litigate,” the second man — Aelric Worne — recites smoothly. “Tasteful. Bit of a mouthful.”
“It’s like they wrote it for us!"
“Or we paid someone to write it for us,” Colan Nesk mutters.
Cedric smirks. “Then we ought to buy them a villa. You see why I like Herwa? There’s an honesty to it — nobody pretends to care. Money talks, and everyone listens.”
“A sacred rite to their processes, to be sure,” Aelric says, still typing. “Bow. Sign. Promise not to be evil. Then pay the filing fee with a smile.”
They sit in silence for a moment before Colan speaks again. “Either of you heard about Mileena Kest?”
“Remind me,” Cedric replies.
“She drafted our H3,” Colan says. “You don’t remember?”
“Oh. Smelled like almonds,” Cedric muses. “Or synthetic almonds. Never spoke to her, but she lingered.”
“She annotated margins and rewrote whole paragraphs on ‘duty of disclosure,’” Aelric says. He finally looks up from his screen. “Filed for contract nullification on ‘conscientious objection.’ Denied. Then disappeared.”
“Well, how self-righteous of her,” Cedric sneers. “If she could handle her own conscience, she’d be here with us — maybe even in that seat you’re warming.”
“Doesn’t make what happened to her any right,” Colan says, quiet but pointed.
“Doesn’t change a thing,” Cedric replies. “You keep your head down, you get your share. She wanted integrity? She can keep it. In obscurity.”
“She violated four NDA clauses and two informal agreements by the time she vanished,” Aelric adds. “Should’ve arbitrated. Instead she burned every bridge.”
“Poor taste,” Cedric mutters. “Never accuse your boss of misconduct without clearing it with Legal.”
The limousine exits the expressway, slowing under the slate-colored sky as it pulls into the Herwan Corporate Commission headquarters — a brutalist facade with a broad driveway and perfect punctuality. The rain has faded to a drizzle as they step out.
“Clock it,” Aelric says, checking his watch. “Twenty-nine minutes from Clairview International.”
“God bless their low-friction economics,” Cedric smiles.
“So long as we remember they stay low-friction for us,” Colan murmurs. “Not for the locals.”
Cedric laughs. “You’re always digging for a conscience in a place built for laundering pleasantries. These locals you pity? They’d move faster if they were worth more. Don’t scowl so much, Colan — it creases the suit.”
They walk toward the building’s entryway — a clean canopy of concrete and glass. As they approach, two Skimtari doormen flank the path: tall, formal, clad in grey uniforms. It’s the first time the men see them in person. Aelric pauses, unsettled.
“Welcome,” one of the uniformed figures says. “You must be the Prestoreans here for an incorporation appointment.”
“We are,” Cedric replies, slipping into his agreeable facade. “Please, do lead us onward.”
“If you would, proceed forward to the central reception desk,” the Skimtari instructs. “Our staff will process your documentation.”
Cedric lifts his chin and leads the way with elegant rigidity, arms close at his sides, expression composed. Colan and Aelric fall in behind as they move through the high atrium toward a central desk.
Behind it sits a Herwan elf woman with short hair, a prim blazer, and a glint of sharpness in her eyes. Her smile is flawless.
“Good morning, sirs. Form H3?”
“Here,” Colan says, producing the document.
She scans the barcode, reads the entry silently, and then aloud: “Greywake Systems: External Vendor Class Four. Internal arbitration only. Herwan court protections waived in full.” She arches a brow. “That’s quite the confidence.”
“We believe in handling our own liability responsibly,” Aelric replies.
“Ah. So you specialize in efficiency… and opacity,” she replies, voice honey-sweet.
Cedric’s smile barely flickers. But he files it away — a sharpened barb dressed in protocol. He likes her already. Enough to not trust her.
“Efficiency is a virtue,” Cedric says smoothly, leaning just slightly forward. “And mystery — well, that’s just good taste.”
The receptionist doesn’t rise to the bait. She hands the document back to Colan.
“Thank you, sirs. The Commission officers will receive you shortly.”
Cedric’s voice softens, his tone dipped in amusement.
“We’re in no rush,” he says, eyes lingering on her just a moment too long. “I imagine you run this place better than the people upstairs.”
She says nothing.
He maintains his smile. “We’ll gladly wait.”
