"Lloyd," Roy acknowledged, his voice flat but lacking its usual sharp edge. "Ken reported on your… training session this morning. With Fang." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "He described the spirit's abilities as… noteworthy."
"Fang has shown significant development, Father," Lloyd confirmed calmly. "His potential appears greater than initially assessed." Understatement of the century.
"Indeed," Roy murmured, tapping his quill lightly on the desk blotter. "Much like his master, it seems." The observation was dry, almost offhand, but carried immense weight. Roy Ferrum did not offer compliments lightly, if ever. Lloyd felt a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed.
"You requested this audience," Roy continued, getting straight to the point. "State your purpose."
This was it. Lloyd took another internal breath. Pitch time. "Father," he began, his voice steady, "I require investment capital."
Roy’s eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly. "Investment? For what frivolous pursuit? More books? Fancier training equipment?" The default assumption was still that Lloyd’s interests were trivial, his needs minor.
"No, Father," Lloyd countered firmly. "For a business venture. A new product. One I believe has the potential to generate significant profit for the Ferrum household."
Roy leaned back slightly, his expression shifting towards skepticism. "A business venture? You? Since when have you developed an interest in commerce beyond enduring Master Elmsworth’s lectures?"
"My perspective has… broadened recently," Lloyd replied evasively. "I have identified an untapped market, a need currently unmet even among the nobility. I have conceived a product to fill that niche."
"And this revolutionary product is?" Roy prompted, his tone laced with disbelief.
"Luxury soap," Lloyd stated simply, clearly.
Silence. Roy Ferrum stared at him. The Arch Duke, ruler of vast territories, commander of armies, master of intricate political maneuvering… stared at his heir, who was apparently proposing to go into the soap business. The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking clock. Roy’s expression remained unreadable, but Lloyd could almost see the internal calculations, the assessment bordering on bafflement.
"Soap," Roy repeated finally, the word flat, devoid of inflection.
"Not the harsh tallow blocks currently used, Father," Lloyd elaborated quickly, seizing the opening. "Gentle, cleansing bars crafted from fine oils – olive, perhaps others. Precisely formulated to avoid harshness, scented subtly with natural essences, perhaps even possessing moisturizing properties. A luxury good. Something that signifies refinement, comfort. A product I believe the nobility, wealthy merchants, anyone with disposable income, will readily purchase at a premium."
He outlined the basic concept, the untapped market, the potential for high profit margins due to low baseline competition and the appeal of genuine luxury. He spoke with confidence, drawing on the business acumen absorbed over his Earth life, translating marketing principles and production concepts into terms Roy would understand: profit, market share, brand prestige.
Roy listened intently, his initial skepticism slowly morphing into sharp, analytical assessment. He asked pointed questions about sourcing materials, potential guild interference, production scalability, distribution channels. Lloyd answered confidently, outlining his preliminary plans, acknowledging challenges but emphasizing the core viability of the idea. He deliberately kept the chemistry simple, focusing on the end product and market potential.
"It is… unconventional," Roy conceded finally, steepling his fingers, his gaze thoughtful. "Yet… the logic regarding the market niche is sound. Existing cleansing agents are crude." He looked directly at Lloyd again, his eyes sharp. "You believe you can produce this? Successfully? Profitably?"
"I do, Father," Lloyd affirmed without hesitation. "With the right initial investment."
"And what level of investment do you deem 'right' for this… soap enterprise?" Roy inquired, a hint of dry amusement entering his tone.
Lloyd took the plunge. "One thousand Gold Coins, Father."
Roy’s eyebrows shot up. One thousand Gold. That wasn't seed money for a hobby; that was a significant sum, enough to fund a small mercenary company for a month, purchase a respectable plot of land, or bribe a minor baron. For soap?
"Explain," Roy commanded, the amusement vanishing, replaced by sharp demand.
"Materials acquisition in bulk requires capital," Lloyd explained calmly. "Olive oil, potentially imported oils, quality lye precursors, essential oil distillation or import, pigments, molds, packaging. Securing reliable suppliers isn't cheap. Initial equipment – controlled heating vats, mixing tools, drying racks – needs fabrication or purchase. Perhaps discreetly hiring one or two skilled artisans – a perfumer, maybe a chemist's apprentice – for specific tasks. Establishing initial distribution channels, even small-scale ones. Contingency funds for unforeseen issues." He broke down the anticipated costs logically, demonstrating he'd thought beyond the mere idea. "One thousand Gold provides the necessary runway to establish production, refine the product, and begin generating returns within a reasonable timeframe."
Roy listened, his expression unreadable once more. He tapped his quill again, the rhythmic sound filling the study. He looked at Lloyd, truly looked at him – the newfound confidence, the sharp intellect suddenly on display, the ambitious scope of the proposal. He compared this young man to the hesitant, unremarkable boy of only a few weeks ago.
"You propose a significant gamble, Lloyd," Roy stated quietly. "Based on an untested product and your own… newfound business acumen."
"Every venture carries risk, Father," Lloyd countered respectfully. "But the potential reward here is substantial. And," he added, playing his final card, "I am willing to stake my credibility on it." He met his father's gaze squarely. "If I can present you with a prototype product – a bar of this luxury soap, demonstrably superior to anything currently available – within less than one month, will you grant the investment?"
He paused, letting the challenge hang. "A product that could, quite literally, change the history of personal hygiene in this Duchy, perhaps beyond. If I deliver that proof of concept, will you back my venture?"
Roy Ferrum considered his son. The audacity of the request. The confidence behind it. The strange, almost unbelievable transformation Lloyd had undergone since his marriage. This wasn't the boy who fumbled sword drills and barely scraped through lessons. This was someone different. Sharper. More focused. More… Ferrum, in a way Roy hadn't anticipated.
Since the marriage, Roy mused internally, his gaze distant for a moment. Is it her? Rosa Siddik? That cold, talented girl… has her presence somehow ignited this change in him? Pushed him? Challenged him? He recalled the reports of Lloyd sleeping on the sofa, the tension between them (Only known by him and his trusted informant) . Perhaps adversity was the catalyst. He mentally praised the Siddik girl – sharp, powerful, seemingly capable of provoking reactions, intended or not.
But no, Roy corrected his own thoughts, his gaze sharpening again as it rested on Lloyd. The girl may be a factor, a catalyst perhaps, but this… this comes from within him too. This newfound maturity, this strategic thinking… it wasn't just Rosa. He remembered the confrontation with Rubel day before yesterday. The way Lloyd had dismantled the accusations, exposed the witnesses, cornered Rubel with ruthless precision. That hadn't been childish defiance; it had been calculated political maneuvering. Lloyd hadn't just stumbled into helping Roy pin down his treacherous brother; he had orchestrated it. Roy had known Rubel was a viper for years, circling, waiting, but had lacked the concrete proof, the political leverage to act decisively without risking wider family schism. Lloyd, in one afternoon, had provided both.
He thought of the succession. For years, he’d worried. Lloyd seemed… inadequate. Unsuited for the burdens of the Arch Duchy. He’d considered alternatives – grooming Jothi despite the challenges of a female heir in their patriarchal society, even looking towards talented youths in the branch families, like Rubel's own ambitious son, Rayan, before his recent disgrace. But now… seeing this spark in Lloyd, this unexpected growth… maybe, just maybe, the direct line wasn't doomed after all.
A flicker of something rare stirred within Roy Ferrum’s chest – hope. Tempered with caution, yes, but undeniably there. Perhaps this 'soap' venture, however bizarre, was another test. Another chance for Lloyd to prove this transformation was real, lasting. And if it succeeded? Profit was always welcome. If it failed? A costly lesson, perhaps, but maybe still a valuable one in Lloyd's development.
He made his decision.
"One month," Roy stated, his voice firm, cutting through the silence. "Present me with this miracle soap. Demonstrate its superiority. Convince me of its potential." He leaned forward, pinning Lloyd with his gaze. "Do that, Lloyd, and you will have your one thousand Gold Coins."
He offered no encouragement, no smile. Just the stark terms of the agreement. A high-stakes gamble, placed squarely on Lloyd’s shoulders.
"Thank you, Father," Lloyd replied, relief washing over him, quickly masked by calm determination. "I will not disappoint you."
"See that you don't," Roy retorted dryly. "Now leave me. I have actual Ducal matters to attend to, beyond the speculative future of soap."
Lloyd inclined his head respectfully and turned, walking out of the study with a newfound spring in his step, the weight of the promise settling comfortably beside the thrill of possibility. He had the chance. He had the deadline. Now, he just needed to figure out the tricky bits. Like sourcing pure olive oil and not accidentally creating explosive glycerin reactions in the process. The path to wealth and power, it seemed, was paved with potential chemical hazards.