Anthali Necime, matron of the Necime family.

I flipped through the quarterly reports one after another, methodically ensuring the balances were within my expectations while double checking the math of the outliers. There's a certain art to dealing with embezzlement.

Sure, I could flog anyone with sap on their fingers, but oftentimes those with the stickiest fingers are the best at applying oil elsewhere. In my experience, there are always a few expenses that are overlooked or deemed unnecessary, yet save more than the long run. It's often a low level manager that ‘finds’ the appropriate funds when those above them are too busy finding petals to prune.

Besides, skimming a bit of the cream is expected in moderation. It's those who grow comfortable that are the issue. They skim more and more, habitually, until they forget they are, in fact, stealing. Catching it early and making an example is the only way to prevent it.

A knock at the door threatened to steal my concentration, but I kept the numbers straight in my head long enough for the distraction to fade. Not more than five minutes later, surely, I addressed my visitor.

“Enter,” I called, after covering any papers of import, then offered further greetings upon recognizing my guest. “Evening Driggers, what can I do for you?”

Driggers was a middle-aged gnomish man, of some sort, with skin the color of charcoal with the barest hint of blue and a gruff voice that didn’t match his short stature. He's worked for me for the better part of the last century and I knew he wasn’t the sort to waste my time.

“The Fauns ‘er causing trouble again,” He says, straight to the point. “Not only are they stealing fruits from the edge of the orchard, claimin’ it's theirs just because it lands a wee bit towards their property, but they’ve also started turnin’ a blind eye to their fawns. They be sneakin through the outcrops of The Eastern Meadow. O’course, we’re makin’ ‘em pay for any erbs we catch ’em eatin, but the numbers aren’t lookin so good. We’re lookin at ‘bout a twenty percent loss from last year.”

Fauns are like Centars but with the body of a goat. It’s really no wonder their young like wandering around the rocky outcrops. Their lack of discipline is concerning though, as the plans cultivated in the rocky terrain are both costly and time-consuming to grow.

In alchemy, they serve as reagents in everything from balms to catalysts in forging root-bronze. Though a minor issue in the big picture, the repercussions will be far-reaching, especially if a lack of response invites escalation or long-term encroachment.

I likely spaced out for a moment, rhythmically tapping my desk as I considered the problem, its effects, and my contingencies against the Fauns. Snapping back to the present, I unlocked a cabinet door and leafed through the files until selecting the one I desired. Inside was an already written letter, just lacking a few details and my seal. Once I filled in the blanks, I handed the envelope to Driggers.

“Pass this letter to Gusher Trumpet. Tell him it's to be delivered by a white pixie. In two months, the river caravans will visit for their pre-winter route. Have our merchants ready to purchase as much of the local hay and straw produce as possible. Get at least a third of the market, preferably two. For one of every ten bales of straw, mix it with a bundle of fescue weed from the southern swamp. For the hay, add black snake root juice. When the Fauns pride breaks mid-winter, sell it to them at a premium, slowly, never more than enough to last them a week.”

Driggers and I stared at one another for a long pause. Finally, he blinked and snatched the letter.

“I’ll take this to Gusher,” He said, heading towards the door, “as for the rest, I’ll be needin you to write all that down.”

As I’m left alone once more, I can’t help but wonder if I’m overreacting. Certainly a response is necessary, but I’ve found myself becoming more bloodthirsty over the years. Sometimes I feel as if it's someone else making the decision in my stead.

It all started with that woman and her spawn, I realized. She was supposed to be a concubine, not a wife. That’s what I had agreed to, when my husband complained one too many times about my schedule. While we were fond of one another, we both knew our marriage wasn’t one of love.

He had inherited responsibilities he didn’t want, and I did. We agreed we would pass the estate on to our firstborn, yet after a few years with that woman, he's talking of it being passed on to his firstborn. I didn’t spend half my life expanding our influence just for it to be stolen from me.

It took longer than I expected to bear a child of my own. I rarely had time to partake in such activities and when I was, I often came home to find my husband already… preoccupied.

Unfortunately, no matter how much I push little Rozen-wyn, his talent could never match up to that harlot’s. He doesn’t do poorly by any stretch. In fact, he is consistently ahead of his peers, but never quite enough to overtake his true competition.

As if summoned by my thoughts, someone abruptly thrown my door open. In runs my little boy with his nursemaid in tow. Despite the twinge of irritation at the intrusion, I still find myself smiling at the little sprudling as he clumsily climbs onto my lap.

“Momma, I decided!” he declared, looking up at me with a mix of excitement and contentment.

“Oh really? And what is it you decided, Roz?” I asked with a glance towards the giggling nursemaid.

“I’ve decided what pet I want to get from the tamers! I want a mammoth tentetrux!”

A mammoth tentetrux, by all accounts, is nothing but a fairy tale. A mammoth-like creature that, instead of a trunk, had multiple tentacle-like snouts. If they do exist, they’re more rare than unicorns.

Stroking the child's hair, I try to let him down easily.

“You wouldn’t be able to fit something like that in your room, Roz. Besides, I don’t believe there is a single mammoth tentetrux in the entire city.”

Seeing him look down with watering eyes, I quickly suggest a more realistic alternative, “How about we go look for an octodile or octogater? Maybe even an octnoceros?”

Ever since the nursemaid read that bedtime story, Roz had been obsessed with tentiziods. Reluctantly, I had ordered some servants to search for ones that were land based.

“Okay,” he sniffles, “Can we go look now?”

“Not right now nectar, I have–”

“Work to do,” he finishes with a pout. “You said we would go last weekend. It's already the weekend after that”

“Yes, but you couldn’t decide on time last weekend. And it's the beginning of this weekend. I have to work extra late today, so I can take you tomorrow. Besides, have you completed your readings? All of them.”