Dmitry stepped toward the desk, closing the distance until he stood directly opposite the old man. He extended his hand with practiced ease.

  “My name is Dmitry. I hail from a... very distant land. And I have a proposition for you.”

  Bruno froze. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, instantly warred upon by the predatory curiosity of a lifelong dealer. Slowly, he reached out.

  When their hands met, the contrast was visceral. The moneylender’s palm was brittle—dry and thin as ancient parchment. But as Dmitry’s fingers closed in the firm, grounded grip of a modern professional, Bruno’s eyebrows shot up. This wasn’t the limp, decorative touch of a local lord; it was the handshake of an equal, a man who carried his power as a tool, not a title.

  Unsettled by such blunt directness, the old man looked up at Dmitry, squinting as if trying to decide whether he was facing a madman, an upstart, or the opportunity of a lifetime.

  “In private?” Bruno finally found his voice, cautiously withdrawing his hand while the ghost of that steel-like grip lingered. “Well... an unusual request, to say the least.”

  He glanced at Cohen and Hans, then gave a sharp, imperceptible nod to the guard. “Cohen, my boy, wait below. Claude will see to you and find a bottle of something decent. Master Dmitry and I need to discuss... matters of geography.”

  The heavy door slammed shut with a finality that made the room’s silence feel pressurized. Dmitry watched them go, then turned back to the old man. Bruno had retreated to the sofa, his frail frame nearly swallowed by the deep cushions, though his eyes remained as sharp as a hawk’s.

  Dmitry leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rasp. “Tell me, Master Bruno, what is the most expensive thing in this world?”

  The moneylender didn’t blink. “Stupidity, Master Dmitry,” he answered with the dry rasp of a turning page. “And you saw its market value just a moment ago.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the door. “His ancestors squandered what took centuries to build. Now he pays the interest. Stupidity is the only commodity that is always paid for with the future.”

  Dmitry allowed a thin, razor-edged smile. He liked the old man’s cynicism. “Where you see stupidity, I see vanity, Master. And back where I come from, we have a saying: Appearances are worth more than gold.”

  Bruno tasted the unfamiliar phrase, his interest piqued.

  “Vanity ruined the House of Prast,” Dmitry continued. “Or nearly did. By a strange turn of fate, the Baron and I have found a... mutually beneficial arrangement. That is why I am here. But let’s cut to the chase. I have a product. Rare. Exclusive. Something this world hasn't seen.”

  Dmitry let the silence stretch, watching the professional hunger ignite in Bruno’s pupils.

  “You don’t put a product like this on a market stall,” Dmitry lowered his voice further. “Its true value is only realized when you weaponize the vanity of the powerful. Their desperate need to own what no one else can.”

  “And what exactly is it?” the moneylender asked. His fingers, resting on his knees, gave an involuntary twitch.

  Hooked, Dmitry thought.

  “Status is defined by the skin we wear, Master Bruno. In every world, you are judged by your cover. Dress a king in a beggar’s rags, and the crowd sees only a frail old man. But dress the lowliest rat in silk and velvet, and every door in the city will fly open.”

  “Watch your tongue, young man!” Bruno hissed, the smile vanishing into a mask of cold warning. “In this kingdom, talk like that leads straight to the block. The walls have ears, and in Nordcross, those ears whisper to the gallows.”

  The moneylender paused, listening to the house’s heartbeat, but the greed in his eyes was still burning brighter than his fear.

  “However...” he whispered, “I take your point. You speak of a facade that outweighs the soul. Do you truly possess a garment worthy of a king? Or at least, of a man who wishes to look like one?”

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  “Precisely.”

  Dmitry reached into his backpack—which looked like a jagged piece of dark rock against Bruno’s fine furniture—and pulled out a flat, hermetically sealed package. He moved with deliberate slowness, letting the weight of the moment settle.

  “This was crafted so far from here that the country isn’t even on your maps,” he said. “Nothing like this has ever existed in your lands. Not for a hundred years.”

  He handed over a transparent polyethylene bag. Inside, neatly folded, was a snow-white polyester robe—a trophy 'liberated' from a hotel in Morocco.

  To Dmitry, it was synthetic trash. But here, in the candlelight, it was an impossibility. The packaging itself—perfectly clear, smooth, a durable 'skin' showing every fiber of the fabric—was enough to make a medieval craftsman lose his mind.

  Bruno froze, afraid to touch it. “Is it... ice?” he whispered. “Or frozen air?”

  “It is protection, Master Bruno. It ensures that not a single speck of dust touches the fabric until it rests on the shoulders of someone worthy.” Dmitry nudged it closer. “Take it. Feel the weight. No bleach in your world can produce a white this pure.”

  With trembling fingers, Bruno took the bag. He felt the slick, unnatural surface of the plastic, listening to its strange, high-frequency rustle. In his world, everything was coarse and porous. This was perfectly smooth. Sterile. Flawless.

  “Open it,” Dmitry commanded.

  Bruno turned the bag over, searching for a seam, a tie, a wax seal. He found nothing. This transparent film was an engineering enigma he couldn't solve. He looked at Dmitry, his eyes pleading: How do I enter without destroying the magic?

  Dmitry smirked. He reached out, took the package back, and with a sharp, violent motion, ripped the polyethylene open.

  The dry, crackling snap made Bruno flinch. He watched in horror as the 'magic skin' was destroyed.

  “This seal cannot be broken unnoticed and it cannot be repaired,” Dmitry said calmly.

  He pulled the white robe out. As the synthetic fabric caught the air, it seemed to expand, unfolding with an eerie grace.

  “This is the guarantee. A sign that no one has touched this fabric but the creator. In my world, exclusivity is worth more than gold. This torn shell is the proof that you are the first and only man in this city to lay hands on this treasure.”

  Dmitry held it out. “Now, feel it. No barriers.”

  Bruno’s fingertips brushed the polyester. His face twisted—a pure cognitive dissonance. The fabric was impossibly soft, fluffy, yet strangely light. It had none of the dead weight of wool or the chill of linen.

  “Is it... is it alive?” he whispered.

  Dmitry didn’t rush him. He leaned against the desk, watching the old shark drown in a sea of synthetic fibers. Bruno was possessed—kneading the fabric, rubbing it against his cheek, searching for a scent of oil or dye, finding only the sterile freshness of a world that didn't exist yet.

  The ticking of the clock on the shelf grew deafening. Suddenly, Bruno snapped his head up.

  “I’ll take it!” he blurted. “Five hundred crowns! Cash, right now!”

  Dmitry let out a slow, disappointed exhale. “Is that all? And I took you for a man of vision, Master Bruno.”

  He watched the moneylender’s face fall. “Five hundred crowns clears the Baron’s debt. That’s all. But without your full support, our business in Nordcross will move like a cart in the mud. And I am not a patient man.”

  Dmitry turned back to his pack. With a series of smooth motions, he began stacking parcels on the polished desk. One after another.

  Ten robes. Snow-white, perfectly identical, glowing under the candlelight. And then—ten pairs of hotel slippers, just as sterile and white.

  Bruno rose from the sofa as if pulled by a string. He had forgotten to breathe. His mouth hung open as he stared at the mountain of 'celestial silk.' He didn't even dare to touch it. He looked up at Dmitry with a gaze that had crossed the line from suspicion to sacred awe.

  “This... this is impossible,” he rasped. “So many... identical... perfect things. Where do you find such silk?”

  Dmitry looked down at him, his gaze cold and transactional. “Let’s call this a ‘test batch.’ Five hundred crowns is the price of my time. But for this...” he swept a hand over the table, “for this, we talk about real numbers. And real services.”

  Bruno took a long, shaky breath. When he opened his eyes, the awe was gone, replaced by the shark that had survived a dozen governors and a hundred ruined barons.

  “Very well,” the moneylender’s voice was dry as bone. “Let’s talk specifics.”

  He circled the desk, eyeing the ten identical artifacts. To Bruno, this wasn't just clothing—it was a lever long enough to move the city.

  “Five hundred crowns for Cohen is a pittance for what’s on this table,” Bruno leaned in. “But you are right. Selling these directly is like throwing raw meat to starving dogs. A riot would start that would crush us both.”

  Dmitry nodded. “That’s why I don’t need a buyer. I need a partner with thick walls and long ears.” He walked back to the window. “I need the Prast name to have weight again. I need security. And I need information.”

  “Information?” Bruno squinted.

  “We’ll start with the Celestial Travelers. Why is their Leviathan docking in the city now? And we’ll finish with how much of the city guard Hoof has in his pocket.”

  The moneylender gave a crooked, appreciative smirk. “You ask a high price, Dmitry. But your silk is worth it. Fine. My offer: I clear Cohen’s debt and give him three hundred crowns in ‘walking around’ money so he can play the noble again. Your... batch... stays in my vault. We don’t sell them. We bestow them. To those who owe us favors. In return, you get my eyes, my ears, and a roof over your head.”

  Dmitry turned, his face an unreadable mask. “Deal. One condition: I decide who receives the ‘gifts.’ You are merely the hand that delivers them.”