I did not sleep that night.
Instead, I sat on the edge of my narrow cot in the apprentices' dormitory, turning the folded parchment over and over in my hands. The ink had begun to smudge along one crease, as if my constant touch could wear away the offer itself.
Around me, the other tenants snored or mumbled in their dreams. The air was sour with stale sweat and the faint, bitter tang of fear—the fear that tomorrow would bring no work, no meal, no reason to rise at all.
I understood that fear. I had carried it since the first moment I opened my eyes in this borrowed body.
But beneath it now was something sharper. A thin, bright line of hunger that no amount of caution could dull.
At dawn, I rose and washed my face in the cracked basin by the door. The water was so cold it made my teeth ache. I dressed in silence, buckled my ledger to my belt, and slipped out into the gray morning.
The streets were still half-asleep. A few porters shuffled past, their carts piled high with sacks of flour and crates of dried fish. The lamplighters moved along the avenues, snuffing out the last of the night's glow.
And there, as he had promised, stood Ashel.
He leaned against a stone pillar at the mouth of the lane, his blue coat fastened high against the chill. When he saw me approach, he inclined his head, as though this meeting were the most natural thing in the world.
"You came," he said simply.
"I said I would."
"Many say such things."
He pushed away from the pillar and gestured for me to follow.
"Come. The supplier does not keep leisurely hours."
---
We walked east, away from the market and the familiar alleys. The city changed as we went—the buildings taller, the doors reinforced with iron, the windows barred.
I recognized the sigils on some of the lintels. The Weavers' Guild. The Candlewrights. The Embalmers.
"This is the artisans' quarter," I said quietly.
"It is," Ashel confirmed. "And the place you will find your first true opportunity."
"Why here?"
"Because even the most respectable trades require goods no one cares to acknowledge," he said without looking back. "And those who traffic in such things prefer discretion."
I swallowed. "Contraband."
"Not in the sense you mean," he said. "But items the guilds would rather keep within their own circles. Enchanted inks. Binding wax. Flux for stabilizing runes. All perfectly legal—so long as you pay the proper tariffs."
"And if you don't?"
He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Then you pay a different price."
I said nothing more.
---
We stopped before a narrow building wedged between two larger workshops. Its facade was unmarked, the door a simple slab of dark wood.
Ashel knocked twice, then once more after a pause.
A panel slid aside, revealing a pair of sharp, dark eyes.
"Name," the voice demanded.
"Ashel."
A moment's hesitation, then the panel closed. Bolts thudded back, and the door swung inward.
"Follow my lead," Ashel murmured as he stepped inside.
I did.
The interior was dim, lit only by a single lantern set high on a shelf. The walls were lined with crates and jars, each labeled in a script I couldn't read. The air smelled of old paper and something acrid beneath it.
A woman stood behind a broad counter, her sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her hair was iron gray, pulled into a tight braid that made her face seem harsher than it might have been.
"You're early," she said without greeting.
"I prefer it that way," Ashel replied.
Her gaze flicked to me, taking in my threadbare coat, the ledger at my belt.
"This the boy?"
"He is."
"You vouch for him?"
"I do."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then she sighed and reached beneath the counter, producing a narrow wooden box.
"Payment in advance," she said.
Ashel nodded. He unbuckled a small pouch from his belt and set it on the counter. The woman weighed it in her palm, satisfied by the heft, then slid the box toward me.
"Open it," she instructed.
I did.
Inside, nestled in folds of waxed cloth, lay six glass vials. Each was filled with a faintly luminescent liquid—pale blue, almost opalescent in the lanternlight.
"Flux?" I guessed.
"Refined," she said. "Enough to stabilize twenty sigils if you're careful."
"And if I'm not careful?"
"Then you'll waste a month's profit," she said bluntly.
I closed the box and set it gently on the counter.
"Where do I take this?"
"North of the old tannery," Ashel said. "There's a workshop behind a red door. The master there will pay you twenty silvers on delivery."
My breath caught. Twenty silvers was more money than I had ever held in my hands at once.
"Why trust me with this?" I asked.
"Because you accepted the parchment," he said simply. "And because I believe you value your life enough not to steal from the people I serve."
The woman snorted softly. "Or perhaps you think you can disappear," she said. "You can't."
I swallowed. "I understand."
"Good," she said. "Then go. The workshop closes by midday."
---
Outside, the light was strengthening—thin beams of winter sun slanting between the rooftops.
Ashel adjusted the collar of his coat.
"I will not accompany you," he said. "This is your test, not mine."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Then you will do what you must," he said.
He studied me a moment longer.
"Remember this, Ren. The guilds measure worth by lineage. The empire measures it by loyalty. But in trade, worth is proven only by results."
I nodded slowly.
"Go," he said.
I turned and began walking.
---
The journey to the tannery took longer than I'd hoped. The streets were growing crowded as the city stirred to life. I slipped between wagons piled high with winter hay, skirting porters hefting crates of dried fish. A few merchants eyed the box in my hands, but none stopped me.
The tannery was a low, sprawling building that stank of old hides and lye. I passed it quickly, grateful for the cold wind that chased the worst of the reek from my hair.
The workshop behind it was easy enough to find—a red-painted door with a brass knocker shaped like a serpent biting its own tail.
I rapped twice.
The door creaked open to reveal a man no older than thirty, his hair pulled back in a tight tail. Ink stains marked his fingertips, and he regarded me with the weary disdain of someone who had seen too many hopeful apprentices.
"Yes?"
"I have a delivery," I said, lifting the box.
His eyes narrowed.
"From whom?"
"Ashel," I said.
Recognition flickered in his expression. Without another word, he stepped aside to let me in.
The workshop was warmer than I expected—heavy with the smell of drying parchment and heated wax. Long tables were littered with half-finished sigils, each inscribed in painstaking lines.
He led me to a cleared space and held out his hands.
"May I?"
I passed him the box. He unwrapped the first vial, held it to the light, then nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
He produced a small coffer from beneath the table, unlocked it, and counted twenty silver drakes into a purse.
"Payment, as agreed."
I accepted the purse with careful fingers. The weight made my heart beat faster.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome," he said dryly. "Tell Ashel I am satisfied."
"I will."
He turned away, already intent on the vials.
---
When I stepped outside again, the cold struck me like a baptism.
I stood on the threshold, staring at the purse in my hand.
Twenty silvers. Enough to rent a proper stall for a month. Enough to buy better stock. Enough to matter.
You did it, I thought. Not Ashel. Not the guilds. You.
I slipped the purse into my coat and started back toward the eastern quarter.
Each step felt a little surer than the last.
I did not know what price this success would demand tomorrow.
But for today, I had won.