Snow clung to the hem of my coat as I climbed the narrow stair to my quarters. I had walked for hours after the hearing, not because I believed it would change anything, but because I could not bear to be still.
Now, as I closed the door behind me, the hush of the loft felt unnatural—like a stage stripped of its backdrop, waiting for the next scene to begin.
I set my ledger on the table and studied it in the wan light. Every transaction recorded there—every sale, every negotiation—had been rendered meaningless in the span of an hour. I traced the last line I'd written, the ink still dark and certain, as if it refused to fade just because the guild decreed it should.
They would call this pride. Folly. They would say I'd invited my own ruin.
Perhaps I had.
But even as that thought flickered through me, it carried no regret. Only a clarity I had never known before.
I was free now—stripped of sanction, severed from any pretense of belonging.
Free to become something they could no longer predict.
I turned to the small hearth, knelt, and stirred the embers to life. The warmth seeped into my fingers slowly, a reminder that no decree could erase the simplest truths: hunger, heat, the will to endure.
When the fire had caught, I fetched the folded scrap Elinne had given me and set it beside the ledger.
Hallowmere.
I had heard the name before—whispered in the alleys behind the copper markets, spoken with the wary reverence reserved for things that could not be traced in any ledger. A district in the southeast quarter, half-abandoned, where old warehouses slumped against one another like drunks at the end of a festival.
A place where the guild's reach grew thin.
I knew going there would mark me in ways no parchment ever could. But the summons was already torn, and the last thread binding me to the old order had been cut.
If I was to survive, I could not do it alone.
I packed what little I owned—a few coins, the ledger, a half-used bundle of wax for sealing contracts no one would honor—and wrapped them in oilcloth. The movements were methodical, almost soothing. As if by pretending this was a journey I had chosen, I could make it true.
When I stepped outside, the snow had slowed to a drifting haze. The street was nearly empty, save for a pair of carters hauling bundled kindling. One paused to watch me descend the steps, his gaze sliding over my face before moving on without comment.
They all knew, I realized. Or they would soon.
Good.
Better to be seen as ruined than forgotten.
---
Hallowmere began where the respectable wards ended—where the cobbles gave way to rutted lanes and the lamps were never lit. Here, the buildings leaned over the streets like old conspirators, their eaves heavy with ice. A thousand rumors nested in the shadows: smugglers, unlicensed alchemists, thieves who traded stolen silks for bread.
I found the address without difficulty—an unmarked door set beneath a faded arch, its wood scarred by generations of knocks. I raised my hand to strike, then hesitated.
This was no longer trade as I had known it. No contracts filed in triplicate, no seal of legitimacy. Only necessity, and whatever alliances I could forge.
Power is never given. It is only taken.
I knocked.
A long pause followed, broken by the muffled scrape of a bolt being drawn. The door opened just wide enough to reveal a face—narrow, with the pallor of someone who had not seen daylight in weeks.
"What do you want?" the man asked.
I held up the scrap of parchment. "Elinne sent me."
His gaze flicked to the name, then back to me. "Wait here."
The door closed. I shifted my weight, aware of how conspicuous I must look—a tradesman with no sanction, standing in the threshold of the guild's nightmares.
Minutes passed. I counted each by the hammer of my heartbeat. Then the door swung wide, and the man gestured me inside.
The room beyond was warmer than I expected. A brazier burned low in one corner, filling the air with the bitter tang of charcoal. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with ledgers and small crates sealed in dark wax.
A woman stood near the brazier, her hair bound in a coiled knot. She wore no insignia, no mark of rank, yet the way the man hovered a step behind her told me she needed none.
Her gaze settled on me with the same dispassionate curiosity I might have given a flawed ledger.
"Ren Arcanon," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You've come to claim the offer Elinne hinted at."
"I've come to survive."
Her mouth curved in a faint smile. "The first honest thing you've said all day, I imagine."
I said nothing.
She gestured to a small table near the brazier. "Sit."
I obeyed. The chair creaked under my weight, though whether from age or disapproval, I could not tell.
She studied me in silence, then reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a thin sheet of parchment. She set it between us.
"These are the terms," she said. "You will work under our patronage. In return, we will provide protection sufficient to keep the guild's enforcers at bay—so long as you do not draw more attention than necessary."
I skimmed the lines, each clause more binding than the last. My throat felt dry.
"What do you want in exchange?" I asked.
Her gaze never wavered. "Information. Access. And your willingness to sell what the guild forbids."
I closed my eyes a moment, feeling the last tatter of illusion slip away. Whatever I had imagined my life might become when I first awoke in this realm, it was no longer possible.
"Do you agree?" she asked.
I thought of the hearing—the cold eyes behind the dais, the certainty that I would break or flee. I thought of the men who would be dispatched to scour the city for my stall, to seize what remained.
I opened my eyes.
"I agree."
She extended her hand. Her skin was cool, her grip precise.
"Welcome to the other side of the ledger," she said.
---
When I stepped back into the street, the snow had stopped. A pale sun pressed weak light between the chimneys, gilding the ice to silver.
I drew a slow breath, and for the first time since the summons had arrived, I felt something almost like relief.
I had nothing left to lose.
And that, I thought, was the surest freedom of all.
I turned toward the avenue, my boots crunching over the frozen ruts, and did not look back.