Dorel Trador was born into a well-established merchant family based in Valence, known across the trade routes linking the north, east, and west of the continent.
His father possessed an enviable reputation. People spoke of him as an upright man, faithful to his word, whose commitments never wavered even when everything else around him collapsed.
In this world, such a reputation carried real weight.
From an early age, Dorel learned how to count cargo, negotiate prices, and organize convoys. He grew up amid noisy marketplaces, smoke-filled inns, and long dusty roads connecting villages, cities, and principalities.
He observed. He learned. And above all… he began to compare.
Where his father saw partners, Dorel had already begun to see risks.
Over the years, a fracture appeared.
Subtle. But irreversible.
His father was too lenient.
When a farmer suffered a poor harvest, he granted more time.
When an artisan struggled financially, he lowered his demands.
And sometimes, he even delivered goods without immediate payment, convinced that a person’s word was enough.
To him, trust was a foundation.
To Dorel… it was a weakness.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Father, it’s been three weeks.”
The man slowly lifted his eyes from the ledgers. The movement was calm, yet slightly delayed, as though exhaustion had settled into him without his noticing.
“They had a poor harvest.”
“And what did we have?”
The silence that followed weighed more heavily than the question itself.
Dorel let his gaze drift across the open account books… then toward his father’s hands.
They were trembling.
Barely.
But enough to be noticed.
“They will pay.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. That’s what they told me.”
Dorel inhaled slowly.
He could have answered immediately. He did not.
“We cannot keep waiting.”
His father carefully closed the ledger, as though afraid of damaging something fragile.
“Then we will go recover the money.”
“You delivered the merchandise. They gave their word.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we the only ones suffering the consequences?”
The man remained silent for a moment. Then he replied in the same even tone:
“Because a word only has value when it survives hardship.”
Dorel slightly looked away.
“A word only has value if it is honored on time.”
This time, his father gave a faint smile. Tired… but sincere.
“Perhaps. You will become a harsher merchant than I ever was.”
Dorel did not answer.
He already knew it was true.
♦ ♦ ♦
The following morning.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The door shook beneath the violence of the blows.
Dorel sat upright abruptly.
This was not a visit.
It was an intrusion.
“Who pounds on a door like that?!”
“Royal Guard! Open immediately!”
In the next room, he heard a chair topple over in a sudden crash.
His father appeared in the doorway, still wearing a wrinkled night shirt, his belt poorly fastened. His graying hair was disheveled, and his tired eyes still struggled to understand what was happening.
“What is—”
The door burst open violently.
The soldiers entered without hesitation.
One of them shoved Dorel against the wall with the back of his arm while another had already grabbed his father by the shoulder.
“Wait! There’s been a mistake!”
“Father!”
His mother rushed in from the kitchen.
“Leave him alone!”
She tried to seize a guard’s arm.
The flat of a sword struck her across the face with a sharp crack.
She collapsed against the table.
The silence lasted less than a second.
Then everything began moving too fast again.
“Mother!”
Dorel tried to rush toward her, but a soldier shoved him back violently.
His father, however, did not resist.
Not out of weakness.
Because he already understood.
He merely turned his head toward his son.
And despite the fear visible in his eyes…
he was still thinking about business.
“The farmer! Recover the money! And the silk merchant… the palace…!”
Even now.
Even in this moment.
He was still trying to repair the consequences of others.
Then the guards dragged him outside.
His boots scraped across the wooden threshold.
Traces of blood remained on the floorboards.
Dorel stared at them without moving.
Eventually, the sound of the wheels faded into the distance.
But the sound of those dragging boots remained carved into his memory.
♦ ♦ ♦
The farmer’s house stood at the edge of the village.
As he approached, Dorel noticed the door was not fully closed.
Voices drifted from inside.
“We’ve had the money… for a week now.”
He stopped cold.
“Then pay.”
“Why rush? He always waits. A few more days won’t change anything.”
A brief silence followed.
Then a sigh.
Dorel pushed the door open.
The two occupants froze immediately when they saw him.
He neither raised his voice nor changed his tone.
“The money. Now.”
There was no anger in his voice.
No visible threat.
And yet… the man stood up immediately.
As though refusing had never truly been an option.
The purse was retrieved from a crude hiding place.
The metallic sound of coins clinking together echoed briefly through the room.
Dorel checked it.
Everything was there.
Of course everything was there.
Without another word, he left.
One thought imposed itself upon him, cold and clear:
They could have paid from the beginning.
♦ ♦ ♦
The silk merchant was staying at the main inn.
The man was experienced. Wary. Accustomed to rushed dealings.
Dorel placed the purse before him.
“I’m taking the entire shipment. Now.”
The merchant observed, weighed, calculated.
Then nodded.
“Deal.”
Simple.
Fast.
Efficient.
If only the rest of the world worked that way.
♦ ♦ ♦
Near the palace, the crowd had already revealed the outcome.
Dorel slowed despite himself.
The murmurs.
The stares.
The unnatural stillness.
Then he saw it.
A hanging silhouette.
The body swayed gently in the wind.
One shoe was missing.
As though all of this were merely another insignificant detail.
Time seemed to contract.
His father.
The bag slipped from Dorel’s hands.
But he did not look down at it.
His gaze remained fixed.
Motionless.
His fingers slowly curled shut.
Very slowly.
♦ ♦ ♦
That day, Dorel understood.
Not an idea.
Not an opinion.
A rule.
In this world, waiting was a mistake.
He never made that mistake again.
Delays disappeared.
Contracts became absolute.
Debts were collected without hesitation.
And when he discovered that certain laws allowed debts to be converted into servitude…
he did not hesitate for long.
At first, it was necessary.
Then… it became logical.
Eventually… he no longer saw anything abnormal about it.
Over the years, his name changed meaning.
Respected.
Then feared.
Dorel Trador did not shout.
He did not threaten unnecessarily.
But he never allowed a debt to continue existing.
Never.
And despite that relentless rigor…
one thing still remained.
Only one.
He always honored his commitments.
As though, somewhere deep inside…
he still refused to prove that his father had been entirely wrong.
Profile
Role : Slave trader
MBTI : ESTJ
Race : Human
Uses everyday language with a negative tone.
- Ambitious
- Gifted
- Fearless
- Fair
- Serious
- Distant
- Demanding
- Clumsy
- Odious
- Serious
Dorel Trador is a methodical and demanding man, not easily impressed. Accustomed to leading convoys and handling dangerous situations, he carries a strong natural authority and speaks in a direct manner that leaves little room for softness. He studies people quickly, taking note of their reactions while maintaining firm control over any situation.
Deeply committed to his work, Dorel places great importance on discipline, efficiency, and the strict fulfillment of obligations. He has little tolerance for incompetence, excuses, or behavior he deems irresponsible. Beneath his cold and sometimes abrasive demeanor lies a consistent personal logic: he values firmness over hypocrisy and believes that everyone must face the consequences of their choices.
Despite working in a cruel profession, Dorel is neither chaotic nor impulsive. He acts only after careful consideration, plans his operations meticulously, and conducts his affairs with rigorous professionalism. This approach has earned him a solid reputation among both his men and his business partners.
However, that same rigidity has set him apart from others. Ill at ease with emotions and genuine human connections, he expresses himself more through actions than through words. His way of speaking and reacting can be blunt—sometimes harsh—often without him fully realizing the impact he has on those around him.