I barely slept.
When dawn finally crept across the crooked beams of the ceiling, it found me already dressed, sitting at the small table with the note open before me.
You are marked now.
Four words. No threat. No demand. Just a certainty as cold as the snow drifting past the window.
I read it a dozen times, hoping some hidden meaning might emerge. None did.
It was not the note itself that unsettled me. It was the truth it carried.
Yesterday, I could have turned away. Returned to the safe anonymity of selling scraps no guild cared to claim. I could have vanished into the alleys, another failed tradesman too inconsequential to notice.
Today, that door had closed.
You chose this, I reminded myself. Now you must own it.
I folded the note and tucked it into the back of my ledger. Then I rose, slung my coat over my shoulders, and stepped out into the morning.
The market was already stirring by the time I reached my stall. Snow fell in soft, lazy spirals, clinging to the awnings and the shoulders of passersby.
I unlocked the crates and began setting out my stock with deliberate care. Each vial, each bundle of parchment arranged as though nothing had changed.
But everything had.
A boy lingered near the edge of the stall, his eyes wide as he studied the goods. When I glanced up, he startled and fled into the crowd.
I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest.
You're imagining it, I told myself. Seeing threats in every corner.
But even as I thought it, I knew it was not imagination.
They were watching.
By midmorning, a few customers had braved the snow. A mason's apprentice bought a small phial of flux. A scribe's journeyman purchased a single sheet of parchment, paid for in tarnished coppers that smelled faintly of fish.
I took their coin, wrote each transaction in my ledger, and tried not to look past their shoulders for the watchers I could not see.
Keep working, I told myself. So long as you move, you are not beaten.
I was retying a bundle of cord when a shadow fell across the counter.
I looked up.
A man stood there, broad-shouldered beneath a heavy black cloak. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cropped short in the guild style. A brass token gleamed on the chain at his throat.
"Ren Arcanon," he said.
His voice was low and rough-edged, as if he rarely spoke above a whisper.
"Yes," I said carefully.
He studied my stall, his gaze lingering on the better stock.
"You've done well for yourself."
"I've been fortunate."
"Fortune is a fickle thing."
He reached into his coat and drew out a folded parchment.
"You are hereby summoned to appear before the Master of Trade Licenses," he said. "Third bell tomorrow."
I took the parchment. My fingers felt numb.
"Why?"
His mouth curved in a humorless smile.
"You know why."
I did not answer.
He waited a moment longer, then turned and walked away without another word.
I stood very still, the snow drifting over my shoulders.
Around me, the market continued as if nothing had happened.
But I knew better.
I retreated behind the counter, opened the parchment, and read it twice.
Summons for Review of Temporary License.
The words were stark in the neat hand of the guild scribe.
I let the paper curl shut in my hand.
You knew this was coming, I thought. You knew the price.
But knowing did not make it easier to swallow.
I set the summons aside and forced myself to keep working.
As the day wore on, the snow grew heavier. Fewer customers passed, and those who did hurried past with their heads bowed.
I sold a little. Not enough to matter.
Each sale felt like a small defiance. A quiet declaration that I would not vanish just because they wished it.
If they mean to crush me, I thought, let them see how hard I will fight.
I was packing away the last of my stock when I felt someone watching me again.
I straightened slowly, hand drifting toward the small knife I kept hidden beneath the counter.
But it was not a guild enforcer who stood there.
It was Elinne.
She had pulled her scarf higher around her throat, but her eyes were unmistakable—cool, assessing, touched by something like amusement.
"I hear you've been summoned," she said without preamble.
"You hear quickly."
"I make it my business to know whose time is running short."
I didn't answer.
She stepped closer, her boots leaving no sound in the fresh snow.
"Most men in your position would already have fled."
"I'm not most men."
"No," she agreed. "You're not."
Her gaze flicked to the crates, then back to me.
"What will you do?"
"Attend," I said simply. "What else?"
"You could leave Orison," she said. "Start again somewhere smaller."
"And live as a fugitive?"
Her smile was thin.
"Better that than a corpse."
I looked past her to where the last of the day's light caught the edge of my ledger.
"I didn't come this far to run," I said.
Elinne studied me a long moment.
"So be it," she murmured.
She reached into her cloak and produced a small scrap of parchment.
"If you survive tomorrow, come here."
She pressed it into my palm.
"Why?"
"Because I might have use for a man who won't bow," she said.
Then she turned and was gone, leaving only the hush of falling snow in her wake.
I looked down at the parchment.
A single word was inked across it:
Hallowmere.
I did not open the stall the next morning.
Instead, I sat by the narrow window, watching the snow drift past the glass in pale veils.
The summons lay on the table, weighted by the ledger. I had read it a dozen times already. The words never changed, though my feelings did—first dread, then anger, then something harder to name.
Resolve, perhaps. Or simply exhaustion.
When the second bell tolled, I stood, fastened my coat, and slipped the summons into my inner pocket. My hands did not shake. I was almost surprised.
If they mean to strip everything away, I thought, let them see my face when they do.
---
The streets were nearly empty. Snow had fallen through the night, muffling the city in a hush broken only by the creak of wagons and the soft, rhythmic scraping of brooms against stone.
The Guild Hall stood on a rise overlooking the eastern avenues, its facade of polished granite catching what little light filtered through the clouds. A flight of broad steps led to a pair of tall doors carved with the sigil of the crowned wheel.
I paused at the foot of the stairs.
A boy in a patched coat. A ledger at his belt.
I wondered how I looked to them—desperate, presumptuous, doomed.
Let them see, I thought. Let them see how far I will go.
I climbed the steps and pushed open the doors.
---
The hall beyond was warm, the air scented faintly of cedar oil. Rows of benches flanked a central aisle that led to a dais at the far end, where a long table waited.
Three men sat behind it, each wearing the same pale green robes marked with silver piping. Their faces were carved from the same wood as their chairs—impassive, unhurried, unimpressed.
A clerk stood to one side, stylus poised over a ledger larger than any I had ever owned.
"Ren Arcanon," the man in the center intoned without looking up.
"Present," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt.
"Approach."
I walked to the foot of the dais and stopped. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, though I knew it was only my heartbeat.
The clerk scratched a note on the ledger.
The man in the center lifted his gaze at last. His eyes were pale gray, the color of old ice.
"You stand summoned to review of your temporary license," he said. "Do you understand why?"
"I do."
"State your understanding."
"That I have conducted trade in goods the guild considers restricted," I said evenly.
A faint stir ran along the benches behind me—observers I hadn't noticed, their faces hidden in the shadows.
"And from whom did you acquire these goods?"
"I decline to say."
The clerk's stylus paused. The man in the center tilted his head, as though examining an insect pinned to a board.
"You decline."
"Yes."
"You understand that refusal to cooperate is grounds for revocation."
"I do."
Silence.
"You are aware," he continued, "that the purpose of licensure is to ensure fair competition and safety in commerce."
I met his gaze without flinching.
"And to protect your monopoly," I said.
Another stir behind me.
The man to the left of the dais shifted in his chair, but did not speak.
"You are impertinent," the center said softly.
"Only honest."
He regarded me a moment longer, then inclined his head to the clerk.
"Record that the subject admits to unauthorized procurement, refuses to name sources, and shows no contrition."
The clerk's stylus scratched busily.
"Ren Arcanon," the man said, turning back to me, "in consideration of your admissions and your disregard for the law, this council has the right to revoke your license in full."
I waited. My palms were damp against my coat seams, but I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
"However," he continued, "we are not without charity."
I said nothing.
"If you surrender your remaining contraband to the guild, agree to remit a fine of ten silver drakes, and pledge not to trade in restricted goods again, your license will be renewed for a term of thirty days."
He folded his hands atop the ledger.
"This is our only offer."
I took a slow breath.
Ten silver drakes was nearly everything I had left. Worse, the pledge would bind me to the very limitations that had nearly starved me.
I thought of Ashel, his voice soft but unwavering:
Power is never given. It is only taken.
I thought of Elinne, her calm amusement as she handed me the address:
I want to see how far you're willing to go.
Farther than this, I thought. Much farther.
I lifted my chin.
"No."
A deeper silence settled over the hall.
The clerk's stylus hovered, waiting.
"You decline our terms?" the man asked.
"I do."
"You understand the consequences?"
"I do."
He nodded once.
"Then by the authority of the Orison Mercantile Guild, your license is revoked."
The clerk scratched the notation with finality.
"You have until dusk to vacate your stall and cease all trade. Any further activity will be considered fraud."
He looked past me, to the shadowed benches.
"Remove him."
Heavy hands closed on my arms. Two guild enforcers stepped from the gloom, their grips firm but not cruel.
They escorted me back through the hall, past the rows of silent observers, and out into the snow.
One paused as the doors swung shut.
"Leave the city," he murmured. "Before nightfall."
The doors closed behind me with a soft thud.
---
Snow fell in thick sheets as I stood at the foot of the steps, the summons still clutched in my fist.
I looked down at the parchment.
Then I tore it cleanly in half.
I will not run, I thought. I will not vanish.
Somewhere behind those doors, the guild masters had already turned to their next case. Another name, another petty offense.
They would forget me by evening.
But I would not forget them.
If they think this is the end, I thought, they have never seen the ledger I mean to write.
I turned and walked into the snow, each step a promise.