Pax didn't linger after leaving the Guild. He slipped through the widened gates as he always did, unnoticed until he was already gone. Behind him, the Guild buzzed with life: overlapping voices, boots scraping against marble, and laughter spilling from the hall like steam from a boiling pot.

Adjusting the hem of his worn cloak, he stepped into the street, letting the morning light warm his shoulders. Greyvale was fully awake now.

Merchants shouted from their stalls, carts rolled along paved roads, and the mingled scents of bread, oil, iron, and dust created a uniquely urban atmosphere.

Pax moved through it all like a current in water, unremarkable and unchallenged. He kept his gaze low and his posture relaxed; being forgettable was part of his design.

Sage's request echoed in his mind: a winemaker.

On the surface, it seemed an odd request, almost trivial compared to intelligence networks or noble bloodlines, but Pax understood its significance right away.

The bar inside the Guild wasn't just a luxury; it was leverage. Wine loosened tongues. It gathered people who otherwise had no reason to linger. It transformed a building into a meeting place and that meeting place into a hub.

Sage wasn't thinking solely about profit; he was considering gravity. And for something like that, an ordinary brewer wouldn't do.

Pax already knew who Sage meant before he'd even finished speaking.

There were few true winemakers left in Greyvale. Most had sold their craft to merchant houses or diluted their traditions for volume, or vanished entirely when noble monopolies swallowed up trade.

But one remained by choice, a man who brewed not for contracts or banners but simply because he refused to stop.

Without hesitation, Pax changed direction. The streets grew narrower as he walked further in, shifting from polished stone and wide roads to brick and timber with older foundations.

This part of the city didn't bustle like the central wards; it hummed instead, a quiet industry where careful footsteps echoed and conversations were kept low and practical. Here lived craftsmen who no longer wished to compete; skill mattered more than ambition.

The smell reached him before he saw the building, fermentation had a distinct presence: sharp yet sweet and earthy all at once. It clung to the air in a way that no incense or perfume could mask.

Pax slowed slightly, allowing the scent to guide him down a side street that curved away from the main road past shuttered shops into an area of buildings that looked almost abandoned if one didn't know where to look.

There it was, a squat structure with darkened stone walls weathered by age. Wooden beams reinforced its exterior, scarred by time rather than neglect.

The sign above hung crookedly, its paint faded beyond recognition. To anyone else, it might seem closed. or worse, dead.

Pax had a knack for noticing the details that others overlooked. The doorframe was spotless where hands brushed against it daily, and the ground near the threshold bore scuff marks from countless passersby. Here, the scent was stronger, fresh and inviting.

Someone was still brewing. Pax paused a short distance away to observe for a moment.

He didn't knock right away; that wasn't his style. Instead, he listened intently and surveyed his surroundings, picking up on subtle cues that would indicate whether he'd be welcomed or sent away.

After a few moments, he heard sounds from within: the scrape of wood against stone, the soft hiss of steam, and the rhythmic clink of glass. Only then did he approach the door and knock.

There was no immediate response.

Pax waited patiently. Time stretched on, long enough that someone impatient might have knocked again or turned away, but Pax remained still, hands loosely folded behind his back, gaze unfocused, posture relaxed.

Eventually, the door opened just a crack, held in place by a chain.

An eye appeared in the gap, old, sharp, and unimpressed. "We're not selling," came a voice roughened by years of smoke and drink. "And if you're here to complain about the smell, take it up with the city like everyone else."

"I'm not here to buy," Pax replied calmly. "And I don't complain."

There was a brief pause before the chain rattled softly as the door opened wider to reveal the man fully. He was lean to the point of gauntness, his hair grey pulled back in a loose tie. His clothes were stained with years of labor, wine, oil, soot, none cared for beyond necessity.

Yet his hands were steady and strong, the hands of someone who still practiced his craft daily. The winemaker took his time studying Pax but lingered not on his attire but rather on his eyes.

"You don't look like a drunk," he finally said. "Or a merchant."

"I'm neither," Pax answered simply. "I'm here on behalf of someone who wants to talk."

The winemaker snorted softly. "Everyone wants to talk; few want to listen."

"I listen," Pax replied without hesitation.

This seemed to amuse the man more than anything else Pax could have said. He unlatched the chain and opened the door fully with a gesture that was neither welcoming nor dismissive.

"Then come in," he said gruffly. "If you waste my time, I'll throw you out."

Inside was warm and thick with scent and steam; barrels lined the walls in neat rows, their wood polished smooth by touch rather than care.

Copper equipment gleamed under low lantern light; pipes and coils arranged with precision indicative of someone who understood exactly why each piece existed where it did. This wasn't just any commercial operation, it felt personal, almost intimate.

The winemaker returned to his work without a hint of ceremony, adjusting a valve as he spoke over his shoulder. "You've got five minutes," he said. "Say what you came to say."

Pax didn't rush. He stepped further inside, allowing the man to continue his task while he observed the setup with quiet appreciation, a gaze that didn't go unnoticed. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured.

"There's a Guild in Greyvale now," he said. "A real one."

The winemaker paused for just a moment, hands still.

"I've heard," the man replied. "Hard not to. They've made quite a stir."

"They've carved out space," Pax corrected him. "For work, for people, for trade that doesn't belong to nobles."

That earned him a sharp glance, brief but pointed. "Go on," the winemaker urged.

"They've built a bar," Pax continued. "Not just for show, but for function. And they're looking for someone who knows how to brew wine without watering it down for profit."

The man let out a short, bitter laugh, not unkind but laced with skepticism. "And you think that someone is me?"

"I know it is," Pax replied confidently.

Silence hung between them as the winemaker leaned back against a barrel, studying Pax with renewed interest.

"And what makes you think I'd agree?" he asked slowly. "I don't work for nobles or merchants, and I certainly don't work for fools with too much money and no patience."

Pax met his gaze steadily. "Then it's fortunate none of those sent me."

The winemaker raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"The Guildmaster doesn't care about banners," Pax explained further. "He cares about systems and craftsmanship. He doesn't want your name; he wants your skill, and he's willing to pay fairly for it."

"How fairly?" the winemaker inquired.

Pax answered without hesitation: "Enough that you won't have to compromise your craft or be told how to brew. Enough that if you decline, you'll be left alone."

That last point seemed significant to the winemaker. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin as he considered Pax's words. "You choose your words carefully," he remarked. "Either you're honest or very skilled at lying."

"I survive by being honest," Pax replied simply. "Lying takes more effort than it's worth."

The winemaker straightened up again, glancing back at the barrels, the work he had protected so fiercely over time. "And this Guildmaster of yours…what does he really want?"

Pax thought of Sage and how passionately he spoke about the future, not building walls but frameworks instead.

"He wants gravity," Pax said thoughtfully, "and he knows wine attracts it."

A faint smile crossed the winemaker's face, the first genuine expression Pax had seen from him.

The winemaker offered a faint smile, the first genuine expression Pax had witnessed from him.

"Come back three days later," he finally said. "I will go to the Guild with you and I'll make my decision after I've seen the place for myself."

Pax nodded in acknowledgment. "That's all I can ask for."

As he turned to leave, the winemaker added almost as an afterthought, "And boy?"

Pax paused.

"If this Guild of yours is anything like the others," the man warned, his eyes hardening again, "I'll burn every barrel before I let them touch my work."

Pax met his gaze steadily. "Then I wouldn't expect anything less."

He stepped back into the street, the door closing softly behind him. As he blended into the city's rhythm once more, Pax allowed himself a small, rare smile.

The hook was set. Now it was just a matter of whether the man still believed in something worth brewing for.

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