The walk was quiet. Not tense, not awkward. Just quiet.

  Benedict led, hands tucked into his coat, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He wasn’t the type to fill silences just to fill them, and I wasn’t the type to ask questions I didn’t want answers to.

  Still, I had to say something, if only to remind myself that I could.

  “So,” I drawled. “How’d you land this gig? Always dreamed of working for vaguely ominous men in carriages?”

  Benedict huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Pays well.”

  “Yeah? And what is it you do, exactly?”

  He stopped walking. Then, as if he was about to hit me with a world-breaking revelation:

  “Work.”

  I gave him a side-eye. Then totally proceeded to give up on questioning.

  “Descriptive.”

  He smirked slightly but didn’t elaborate.

  Some streets later, the scenery started to get a whole lot cleaner and quieter. Not safe, necessarily—just the kind of place where trouble wore an expensive coat.

  The uneven cobblestones of King’s Quarter gave way to something smoother, better-maintained. Gas lamps stood taller here, the glass polished, the flames steady—not the flickering, half-snuffed lights I was used to. No grime streaked the buildings, no gutters overflowed. The air smelled different, too. Well, when the sewer is actually cared for, what would I expect? No rot, no sweat, no fish stink from the docks. Just the faint scent of damp stone and whatever expensive cologne the residents had showered themselves in.

  We’d left King’s Quarter behind.

  Ah, Eldenridge.

  It wasn’t the wealthiest part of Eldenport—that would be Highgate, where the real old money holed up—but it was close. A place of polished restraint, where fortunes weren’t flaunted but quietly maintained. Where power existed in dinner parties and contracts instead of brute force.

  I kept my voice light. “You know, I always figured you’d end up as a bouncer. Tavern muscle. Stand in a doorway looking imposing.”

  “Did that once.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Didn't take a fancy?”

  Benedict shrugged. “Uh. Something like this.”

  This time, he didn’t even bother with the smirk. Simply walked on ahead.

  That was the first thing that didn’t feel right. Well, not just today. The entire damn day.

  Benedict had always been the kind of person to allow conversation to flow around him, replying in short, careful answers. But now? The silence was somewhat... excessive? His stance somewhat too stiff.

  Oh, right.

  Makes sense.

  He never looked at me once I had spoken about him. Since I said vaguely ominous men in carriages.

  I caught sight of him while we took a turn, seeing the way that his fingers were curled and unfurled inside his coat pocket, a self-soothing habit.

  Something between fear and respect, huh?

  “You’re nervous,” I said, testing the waters.

  Benedict let out a slow breath through his nose. Calculated.

  “If you were standing in front of a storm,” he muttered, “and you knew it could hear you… would you speak?”

  That stopped me.

  Benedict wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze was fixed ahead, toward the building. And for the first time, I realized something.

  He wasn’t just afraid of Sir Vaelthorn.

  He was afraid that Sir Vaelthorn might notice he was afraid.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ahead, the building finally came into view.

  Small.

  That was the first thing I noticed.

  For a city where three- and four-story buildings were the norm, this one barely scraped two. Greystone, plain and unassuming, wedged between more impressive properties. A wooden bench sat beneath a crooked little tree outside the entrance, its bare branches stiff from the cold. A line of neatly trimmed bushes flanked the right side, separating it from the taller building next to it.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  It was a place designed to blend in. And it did. Perfectly.

  I followed Benedict through the door.

  The interior was just as minimal. The entrance gave way to a sitting room—neither parlour nor office, but something in between. The furniture was solid, well-made, and expensive without being flashy. A fireplace crackled, just enough to make the room cosy, especially in Eldenport. The bookshelves weren't overfilled. The scent in the air was something I couldn't afford.

  There was a door to the right, open, and I could catch a glimpse of a small, neat kitchen.

  Then it opened the rest of the way.

  And out stepped him.

  Sir Vaelthorne.

  He didn’t emerge with the slow, deliberate weight of someone about to make an impression. He just walked in, carrying two apples. Tossed one slightly in his palm, the motion casual, before holding the second out toward me.

  “Hungry?”

  The sheer normalcy of it threw me.

  For a second, I just stared.

  His piercing blue eyes regarded me patiently, their usual sharpness softened by a hint of amusement. The dark green overcoat hung on him, the high collar accentuating his angular features, making him seem like he stepped out of another era.

  I took the apple instinctively, rolling it in my hand.

  I looked around the room before turning back to him. “This is quite the venue for a summons. Better than a carriage, I suppose.”

  He offered a faint smile, but there was something inscrutable behind it. “This place has many... functions. Meetings are just one of them.”

  The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

  I didn’t push.

  Not yet.

  Then I finally addressed him.

  “Sir Vaelthorne.”

  The name had a way of making me feel like a plebeian. Like I was addressing an old noble.

  Vaelthorne blinked slowly, then let out a soft laugh.

  “Ah.” He paused, expression mild. Almost innocent. “I suppose age is catching up with me. I never did properly introduce myself, did I?”

  His face shifted—just slightly—into something self-deprecating. An odd look on him. Something that didn’t quite belong.

  “Please, call me Sigmund,” he continued. “Vaelthorne makes me feel quite ancient.”

  There was something in his tone—dry, yet edged with quiet amusement—that almost made me believe the joke.

  Nearly.

  I rotated the apple slowly in my hand, feeling its weight.

  Exceptional quality. Silky skin. The perfect touch of firmness.

  Yep. Definitely not from the general market.

  All right, Sigmund.

  The fire crackled. The silence stretched.

  Then, casually, he added, “You accepted the invitation rather quickly.”

  “Didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

  He looked at me, amused. “You did, in fact, have a choice.”

  That pulled me up short.

  I frowned. “Did I?”

  Sigmund tilted his head, considering me. “Of course. You could have refused. It would not have changed anything. Not for me.”

  He meant it.

  He doesn’t need me here.

  Which meant I was the one who had decided to come.

  If I had ignored Benedict, if I had chosen to pretend none of this existed…

  Sigmund wouldn’t have chased me down.

  He didn’t need me here.

  Fucking brilliant.

  He must have seen the realization dawn in my expression because his smile widened just slightly.

  “But,” he continued smoothly, “I believe you will find that you need me.”

  I stiffened.

  Sigmund’s gaze flicked, ever so briefly, to my coat pocket. “The object you carry… it is not meant to be handled lightly.”

  The book pressed against my ribs, heavier than it should be. Not the weight of paper and leather—something denser, something thicker than space itself.

  I adjusted my coat. The weight did not shift.

  It wasn’t just sitting there. It was waiting. Watching.

  I swallowed.

  Enough games.

  “What is it?” I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

  Sigmund exhaled through his nose, almost thoughtful. Then, in that same measured, precise tone, he said—

  “It is something that does not wish to be known.”

  I stared.

  What.

  He continued as if this was a perfectly acceptable answer. “There are objects in this world that do not settle into reality the way we do. They slip through its grasp. Evade. Elude.”

  Elude? Evade?

  A muscle in my jaw twitched.

  “You don’t know?”

  Sigmund regarded me, head tilted slightly. He had caught it—the way my fingers had tightened around the apple, the tension bleeding into my shoulders, the disbelief that had just sparked into something closer to anger.

  And, ever so calmly, he corrected himself.

  “I know more than you do,” he said smoothly. “And I also know that such objects rarely offer their owners anything but death or madness.”

  Isn't that lovely? Absolutely, fucking, sweet.

  Sigmund’s voice remained perfectly level and calm. “Which is why,” he continued, “I think you will make good use of my advice.”

  The tension didn’t snap—it just gave up. Wore itself down under the weight of the last two days, ground into something dull and... numb. Whatever fight I had left didn’t shatter, didn’t break. It just… sighed.

  I took a slow, deliberate bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the quiet room.

  Damn thing is sweet too.

  “Right, Sigmund...”

  His expression didn’t change, but his eyes followed the movement, the faintest flicker of amusement settling at the edges of his mouth.

  I chewed. Swallowed. Rolled the apple between my fingers before exhaling.

  "Where do I sign, then? Is this a formal contract? Perhaps I'm leasing my soul for an indefinite time? Will I have to use my blood? I must admit, I'm not fond of the idea of cutting myself."

  Sigmund Vaelthorne finally laughed, and this time, it did not sound fake.

  Amused.

  Looking directly at me, he nearly looked into my soul.

  Passionate.

  As if he was gazing at something in front of him, something that he alone could see.

  I'm sure he could.

  Like a child who had just discovered a new toy, already planning how to take it apart.

  “No, no. Nothing so... dramatic. For now, that is.”

  He smiled then.

  Unnaturally white teeth for someone his age. Whatever age that was.

  “But I am interested in what you might... become.”

  A pause.

  “I wonder if you’ll like it.”