Chapter 16: The Everwind Legacy
There was a saying that passed in hushed tones across the ports, estates, and marketplaces of the kingdom:
“Even devils fear the contracts drafted by the Everwinds.”
It was no exaggeration.
You know a name has power when even devils flinch at the paperwork.
That’s the Everwind Trade Association for you.
A name whispered with equal parts reverence, exasperation, and audited fear.
Mention them in a room full of nobles and merchants, and you’ll get three things: one person clapping, one person sweating, and one person quietly checking their pockets to make sure the Association hasn’t already invested in their family inheritance.
Now, to the uninitiated, say, an old gardener named Terrin, who has never read a business newspaper in his life and still thinks “margin” refers to the edge of his planting beds, the Everwinds sound like a charming delivery company.
They are not.
They are not charming.
They are not merely deliverymen.
They are a benevolent, world-consuming, logistics-optimized storm of progress and profit.
And they never, ever, missed a delivery.
If a noble estate ordered sixty crates of rare summerfire oranges, the Everwinds would not only ensure the oranges arrived unbruised and ripe but also include extra crates, neatly packed, free of charge, citing a minor delay of six minutes on the original contract.
If a village merchant requested healing salves and alchemical reagents during wartime shortages, the Everwinds would find a way, often three, using land caravans, air skiffs, and quiet deals with unsavory smugglers, all tied together by perfectly legal paperwork.
Some said the parchment itself bled ambition.
Their contracts were ironclad, enchanted, and impossibly detailed.
A single trade agreement could span over a hundred pages, covering everything from celestial movement contingencies to rat infestations mid-transport.
Reading one of their “standard” merchant agreements was often compared to facing the final boss of a dungeon, with the added caveat that the boss might sue you for breach of etiquette clause 3-B if you spilled wine on page seven.
But while the nobles cursed their binding clauses, and the lesser guilds prayed they’d never be noticed, the people had a strange sort of respect, even admiration, for the Everwinds.
Why?
Because despite their ruthless efficiency and business-first nature, the Everwinds gave people work.
Real work.
Hard work, yes.
Back-breaking, toe-numbing, soul-draining work, but work that paid well, work that kept families fed, towns afloat, and orphanages running.
They funded bakeries in war-torn regions, not out of kindness, but because people with full bellies worked faster.
They provided on-site healers and fire-mages for their forges, not because they feared injury lawsuits, but because a dead worker slowed output.
And they invested heavily into education and apprenticeship programs, not because they believed in uplifting the common man, but because smarter workers invented better machines, and better machines printed more money.
They were paradoxical to the bone.
They fed the poor, but only to keep them healthy enough to labor.
They built hospitals, then charged discounted service fees, only redeemable in Everwind vouchers.
They raised orphans, educated them with the finest tutors, and trained them in logistics, engineering, and economics, before promptly hiring them into their own ranks.
They were kind in a way that felt calculated, and cruel in a way that felt efficient.
To the nobles, they were megalomaniacs with gold ledgers for hearts.
To the common folk, they were the devil you’d gladly sell your soul to, because they’d at least give you a good deal and health insurance.
And yet, the Everwinds never broke their word.
Never delayed, never underpaid, never defaulted on a deal once ink had dried.
***
Take the story of their name for example.
Long ago, when the Northern Sea entered its infamous Calm, the kind of cursed stillness that made even the gulls land and get government jobs, the Everwind fleet arrived.
Sails full.
Timetables intact.
Not a single captain late.
No one knew how they did it.
No one still knows.
Some say they bribed air spirits.
Others whisper of pocket-dimension paddle wheels or necromantic tugboats.
The realists say “contracts”, which, when it comes to the Everwinds, is close enough to magic anyway.
All we know is this: their cargo arrived.
Fresh.
On time.
With a receipt.
Thus, the world learned a truth etched into shipping docks across the continent:
“They do not wait for the wind. They simply set sail.”
***
Now, most trade groups have bylaws.
Some even enforce them.
The Everwinds?
They wield contracts like paladins wield swords.
Glowing, terrifying, and capable of banishing you from your own lease agreement.
The story goes that a greater imp named Baelzakhor once tried to breach an Everwind soul-ink shipping clause.
A small oversight, he thought.
A clever loophole.
The Everwinds disagreed.
They invoked Clause 317-C, Addendum E, Subsection 8: Labor Equivalency in Cases of Demonic Malfeasance.
What followed was a planar retrieval operation, one very confused devil court, and six months of unpaid overtime during which Baelzakhor was made to deliver mail, recite safety protocols, and refill ink wells for junior scribes.
He is, reportedly, still very punctual.
***
Let’s talk about their morality.
Because, believe it or not, despite all of their antics, the Everwinds are widely praised for their generosity.
Hospitals in plague towns?
Everwind built.
Schools for orphaned war refugees?
Everwind funded.
Freshwater for famine-struck villages?
Everwind purified, bottled, and sold it in bulk.
You see the pattern.
They don’t give out charity.
They give out infrastructure.
And they charge for it, with interest.
And the kicker?
People still thank them.
“They gave us bread, taught us to bake, then leased us the oven and licensed the fire.”
A very tired baker, now regionally employed
They are not evil.
But they are not kind, either.
They are efficient.
They are ruthlessly fair.
And if that sounds like a contradiction, well you are free to lodge a complaint at their front desk.
***
There is a saying that, when an institution or a corporation grows big enough they try to influence the politics of a region or meddle in it at least to maximize profits.
Not these lunatics.
When the Everwinds move into a region, they don't invade.
Oh no.
That would be vulgar.
Instead, they sponsor a community center.
Then a warehouse.
Then a school.
Then, whoops!, half the town is employed by them, the other half is living off subsidies from them, and the mayor’s personal physician has been replaced by an Everwind-certified health alchemist.
Some call it corporate hegemony.
Others call it stability.
The locals?
They call it Tuesday.
In lawless townships, they build depots, install lights, hire guards.
They feed the poor, but only if the poor agree to package grain.
They pay handsomely, but insist that wages be spent within Everwind-run stores (employee discounts)
A man might curse them for placing tolls on a road, until he realizes they were the ones who paved it.
A mother may lament her son working long shifts, until she sees the medical benefits and schooling he receives.
And the Everwinds never take without giving, never cheat, never lie, and never promise more than they can deliver.
They are capitalists, yes, but ones that play by the rules and ensure the rules uplift the ground they build on.
Another example was a village up north was once threatened by banditry awoke to find its road guarded by Everwind-funded mercenaries.
The villagers cheered, until they received letters of employment and work schedules.
“We saved you,” the letter said,
“Now let us help you save yourselves.”
In the borderland city of Brevinhault, they bought out every failing smithy, retrained the workers, raised wages, and tripled output within a month.
Productivity soared.
Quality improved.
Morale rose.
Later, they installed Everwind-owned taverns, Everwind-sponsored schools, and Everwind-designed bathhouses.
And the people?
They stayed.
They thrived.
They built lives.
Perhaps the truest depiction of the Everwind ethos is this:
They are not kind because it is right.
They are kind because it is efficient.
They are not just because they are noble.
They are just because justice ensures cooperation.
And yet, what does it matter?
A starving child does not care why the bread is warm.
A dying town does not mourn why the lights came back on.
In the end, intentions are luxuries.
Results are salvation.
And the Everwinds always deliver results.
***
So when Sir Richardson, formerly of House D’Claire, currently of “please don’t seize my orchard”, saw the Everwind seal on the offer to refinance his ruined estate, he didn’t smile.
He choked.
Because he knew.
The gardener however hummed a jaunty tune, nearly spilling tea as he gestured wildly with a letter in hand.
The Everwind letter.
The letter.
The one that might very well doom them all to a life of bi-weekly compliance audits and quarterly stakeholder rituals.
Terrin laughed, laughed, like this was the best news he’d ever received since that time the tomatoes sprouted early.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves proper backers now, eh?”
He chirped, spreading out the Everwind paperwork across the desk like picnic cloth.
“Can already picture the banners flappin’ in the orchard wind! Think they’ll give us matching boots? I always fancied the polished kind.”
Sir Richardson did not answer.
He sat very still, staring at a single phrase on page twenty-seven of the partnership proposal:
"Cross-regional asset consolidation in accordance with Yield Harmonization Protocols (Last updated during the Grain Oversight Treaty of 1743)."
He didn’t know what that meant.
No one outside the Everwind legal caste ever knew what anything meant.
But he felt it in his bones, the way a farmer smells a storm days before it arrives.
The kind of phrase that ended with your orchards reclassified as bio-industrial clusters and your apples sold in units of data.
He took a long, slow breath.
‘Why, in all the blessed stars, did I send them that letter?’
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
A desperate idea, yes, but desperation had been the only thing in surplus on the estate.
And now.
Terrin spun around gleefully, now holding what appeared to be a branded surveyor's compass.
“This thing’s got gold inlays, Rich! Ever seen one of those fancy city compasses with a grip? A grip! Like it’s meant for real men, not those scribe-fingered types!”
Richardson resisted the urge to slam his forehead into the desk.
Not because he feared injury, he welcomed it, frankly, but because the desk had been imported and cost more than the entire west wing’s plumbing.
Ignorance, he decided, must truly be the purest bliss.
Terrin, blessed creature that he was, had never read a business newspaper in his life.
The closest he came to finance was bartering radishes for ale at the tavern.
‘Trying to explain Everwind’s internal power structures and vertical acquisition models to him would be like trying to explain tax reform to a rock.’
A happy, strong, shovel-wielding rock who thought “equity sharing” meant taking turns with the wheelbarrow.
Richardson’s thoughts turned briefly, bitterly, to Lady Seraphina.
She would’ve known what to do.
She could read a contract upside-down in candlelight and still find the clause that would undo it.
She once made a tax collector cry through sheer strategic implication.
But she was gone.
And now, instead of a lioness in court silks, all he had was a delighted gardener trying to figure out if they could request Everwind-themed overalls.
Terrin laughed aloud again as he unfolded a pamphlet titled “Welcome to Your Corporate Growth Family!” and pointed at the smiling windmill mascot on the cover.
“Look at this fella! Bet Lucien’ll love him. I’m gonna put this in his room.”
Richardson closed his eyes.
He pictured Lucien being buried alive under branding guidelines and productivity matrices.
A poor boy dragged from a romantic disaster into a nightmare of ledger margins and legalese.
He could already see the lad, eyes glazed over, muttering something about “harvest optimization targets” as he tried to plant a tree using a corporate-approved ergonomic spade.
What had he done?
What had he done?
And worst of all, there was no going back.
No polite refusal.
No “we changed our minds.”
The moment the seal had been broken and the parchment signed, the Everwinds had already prepared the press release.
Terrin, now fully aboard the train to capitalistic utopia, spun around with a fist raised triumphantly.
“To the orchard’s glorious future!”
He roared.
Richardson looked up at the ceiling.
Not in prayer, he doubted even the gods dared intervene in Everwind contracts, but simply to surrender.
He had made his choice.
He would have to weather the storm.
And, with a long, slow sip of tea that tasted like defeat and bergamot, he resigned himself to fate.
May Lucien survive the brand audits.
***
