Richter’s Bleeding Throne

Chapter 5: The Velvet Noose

​"Place your filthy thumb on the hot wax right now, you miserable beggar, and congratulations on becoming the most pathetic husband in the history of Aethelgard," Ghina ordered, her voice echoing sharply against the damp stone walls of the underground assembly hall.

​Richter kept his head bowed, his knees pressing hard against the cold floor tiles. He raised his left hand, letting it tremble violently as he reached toward the parchment resting on the low wooden table. Beside the document stood an elderly legal scribe, his face pale and sweating under the dim yellow light of a single oil lantern. The scribe held a brass spoon filled with melting red wax, terrified by the heavily armed mercenaries guarding the heavy oak doors of the secret chamber.

​"Mistress, the wax is too hot," Richter whimpered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak. "It will burn my skin. Please do not make me do this."

​Ghina stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar of his tattered burlap cloak. She yanked him upward just enough to force him to look into her eyes. Her breath smelled of stale wine and nervous energy. The past few days of frantic spending and massive logistical shifts had taken a toll on her appearance. Her expensive silk vest was wrinkled, and dark circles framed her calculating eyes.

​"Listen to me carefully, you useless piece of trash," Ghina hissed, her grip tightening around his neck. "I have completely drained my syndicate accounts to hire those drilling crews in the southern canal. I stopped paying Galileo his extortion taxes because every single copper coin is going toward uncovering your dead father's vault. If you do not sign this customary marriage contract tonight, I cannot legally claim the excavation rights. And if I cannot claim those rights, my creditors will skin me alive. So you will press your thumb into that wax, or I will feed you to the canal rats right here."

​"Yes, merciful mistress," Richter cried out, forcing a fake tear to slide down his dirt-caked cheek. "I will sign it. Richter will be a good husband. Richter will obey."

​He lowered his head again, hiding the cold, calculated gleam in his eyes. The trap was finally springing shut. This was the velvet noose he had carefully woven for her during his lonely, agonizing nights in the slum sector. Ghina was entirely blinded by her own greed. She had taken the bait of the fake Cruor treasure and swallowed it whole. She had alienated her corporate allies, ignored the rising threats from Galileo's monopoly, and spent money she did not possess. Now, she was legally binding her syndicate to a ghost.

​"Read the final terms, scribe," Ghina commanded, releasing Richter and wiping her hands on her leather trousers as if she had just touched a diseased animal. "And do it quickly. I want the drilling to commence before the midnight bells ring."

​The old scribe adjusted his spectacles, his hands shaking as he unrolled the bottom half of the heavy parchment. "By the ancient customary laws of the lower districts, this contract binds Mistress Ghina of the Black Water Syndicate to the laborer known as Richter. All properties, claims, and bloodline rights belonging to the groom are hereby transferred into the joint custody of the bride. The marriage is recognized immediately upon the sealing of the blood and wax."

​"Perfect," Ghina said, a greedy smile finally breaking across her stressed features. She looked down at Richter with absolute absolute contempt. "Did you hear that, old man? Your father's treasure belongs to me now. You are nothing but a legal stepping stone."

​"I do not want the treasure, mistress," Richter mumbled, pressing his face closer to the floor. "I only want a warm place to sleep in the storage room. I only want the bread you promised me."

​"You will get your bread," Ghina laughed, turning to look at her chief enforcer, who was pacing nervously near the back of the hall. "Do you see this, Marcus? We have won. By tomorrow morning, the pure Cruor fluid will be flowing into our private tanks. We will never have to answer to Galileo or his corporate lapdogs ever again."

​Marcus stopped pacing, his hand resting heavily on the hilt of his steam-powered blade. He did not look convinced. "Mistress, I am still worried. The scouts reported heavy movement near the Sector 9 borders. Galileo knows we missed our transit payments. His elite guards have been asking questions at the upper docks all evening."

​"Let them ask," Ghina scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "Galileo is arrogant. He thinks we are just experiencing a temporary cash shortage. He has no idea that we are about to bypass his entire monopoly. By the time his tax collectors realize what is happening, we will have enough wealth to hire a mercenary army twice the size of his."

​Richter listened to their conversation, his heart beating with a steady, rhythmic calm that completely contradicted his trembling exterior. He knew exactly where Galileo's men were. He had made sure of it. Two nights ago, while sweeping the warehouse floors, Richter had slipped into Ghina's office and altered the dispatch logs. He had planted forged documents indicating that a massive cache of stolen corporate data was being hidden inside this very assembly hall. He had deliberately left a breadcrumb trail that Galileo's paranoid security network could not possibly ignore.

​Galileo was not coming here for the missing taxes. He was coming here because he believed a corporate spy was operating inside Ghina's syndicate.

​"The wax is ready, mistress," the scribe interrupted gently, holding out the brass spoon.

​"Do it, beggar," Ghina ordered, pointing at the document.

​Richter let out a soft, pathetic whine. He reached forward with his left hand, deliberately moving with agonizing slowness. He pressed his dirty thumb against the hot red wax, letting the searing heat bite into his skin. He did not flinch. Compared to the acidic steam that Galileo had poured over his open back months ago, this pain was absolutely nothing. He pressed his thumb firmly onto the bottom of the parchment, leaving a perfect, dark red imprint next to Ghina's elegant signature.

​"It is done," the scribe announced, rolling up the document quickly. "You are now legally bound under customary law."

​Ghina threw her head back and let out a loud, triumphant laugh. She grabbed the rolled parchment from the scribe's hands, clutching it to her chest as if it were made of solid gold. "Order the crews to start the heavy drills, Marcus! We are breaking into the vault tonight!"

​"Yes, mistress," Marcus replied, nodding as he turned toward the heavy oak doors.

​Before Marcus could take a single step, the entire underground assembly hall shook violently.

​The heavy stone floor vibrated beneath Richter's knees. Dust and small pebbles rained down from the vaulted ceiling. A deafening mechanical roar echoed from the corridor outside, followed immediately by the sound of shouting men and the sharp, distinctive crack of steam-powered rifles firing in rapid succession.

​Ghina froze, her triumphant smile vanishing instantly. "What is that? Marcus, what is happening outside?"

​"We are under attack!" Marcus shouted, drawing his heavy blade and running toward the entrance. "Defensive positions! Protect the mistress!"

​The five mercenaries in the room scrambled to draw their weapons, aiming their rifles at the sealed doors. The old scribe screamed in terror, diving under the wooden table and curling into a ball.

​Richter immediately collapsed onto his side, curling his body into a tight, defensive posture against the cold stone wall. He wrapped his tattered cloak around his head, playing the role of the terrified, useless beggar flawlessly. But beneath the fabric, his eyes were wide open, watching the chaos unfold with cold satisfaction.

​A massive explosion shattered the heavy oak doors.

​Thick black smoke and green acidic steam poured into the assembly hall. The heavy wooden planks were blown inward, crushing two of Ghina's mercenaries instantly. The sheer force of the blast knocked Marcus off his feet, sending his blade clattering across the floor.

​Through the swirling smoke, a squad of heavily armored soldiers marched into the room. They wore the polished bronze breastplates and heavy iron boots of Galileo's elite corporate enforcers. Their faces were hidden behind terrifying iron gas masks, and their steam rifles were leveled directly at Ghina's remaining guards.

​"Drop your weapons immediately!" the lead enforcer roared, his voice amplified by the mechanical filters in his mask. "By the authority of the Upper Docks, you are all under arrest for corporate treason!"

​Ghina stepped backward, her face completely drained of color. She clutched the marriage contract tightly to her chest, her eyes darting frantically around the room as her grand empire crumbled into ash in a matter of seconds. "This is a mistake! You have no jurisdiction here in the lower sectors! We have done nothing wrong!"

​The sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed from the ruined doorway. The enforcers stepped aside, lowering their rifles slightly to make way for their master.

​Galileo stepped into the assembly hall.

​He was dressed in an immaculate dark coat lined with expensive fur, entirely untouched by the dirt and grime of the lower city. He held a silver-headed cane in his right hand, though he clearly did not need it to walk. His eyes were cold, calculating, and devoid of any human empathy. He looked around the ruined hall, his gaze sweeping over the terrified scribe, the defeated mercenaries, and finally resting on Ghina.

​"Jurisdiction is a concept for those who do not own the city, Ghina," Galileo said, his voice smooth and incredibly dangerous. He slowly walked forward, the green light from the hallway casting long, sinister shadows across his face. "You stopped paying your transit taxes. You diverted massive amounts of capital to the southern canal. And worst of all, you allowed a parasite into my network."

​"A parasite?" Ghina stammered, taking another step back until her spine hit the stone wall. "I do not know what you are talking about, Galileo. We are just conducting independent business."

​"Do not lie to me," Galileo snapped, his calm demeanor breaking for a fraction of a second. He pulled a stack of forged transit logs from his coat pocket and threw them onto the floor. "My auditors tracked a massive data breach originating from this exact location. Someone in your syndicate has been stealing the structural blueprints of my upper refineries. I do not care about your petty smuggling routes, Ghina. I care about the rat you are hiding."

​Ghina stared at the papers on the floor, complete confusion washing over her face. "I swear to you, I have no spies in my syndicate. We are only trying to excavate a legal claim in the south. We have nothing to do with your refineries!"

​Galileo did not listen. His cold eyes scanned the room again, looking for the source of the anomaly. He looked at the trembling scribe under the table. He looked at the bleeding mercenaries on the floor.

​Then, Galileo's gaze stopped.

​He looked directly at the dark corner of the room, where a miserable, dirt-caked figure was huddled against the wall. Richter lay perfectly still, his ruined right hand clutched against his chest, his breathing shallow and rapid. He played the part of the broken slave flawlessly, but the tension in the air was so thick it was suffocating.

​Galileo slowly raised his hand, extending his iron-clad finger. He pointed directly at the spot where Richter was kneeling and trembling.

​"Grab that piece of trash right there," Galileo commanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Bring him into the light."

​Two massive enforcers immediately stepped forward, reaching their armored hands toward Richter's tattered cloak. Has the disguise failed? Has Galileo recognized the ghost he created, or is this just the next brutal phase of the trap?