"It's your meeting. Talk."

  He traced the rim of his gss with one finger, eyes raking over me.

  "I—" The word snagged in my throat. His earlier dispy of power had thrown me.

  I had been arrogant. Perhaps the victory at Castle Greymane had gone to my head.

  I expected to handle one or two men, plus their security. Not this. An entire den—at least a hundred thieves, all armed to the teeth. I hadn't realized they operated so openly.

  He watched me flounder for a moment, leisurely sipping his drink, then leaned forward with a smirk.

  "Oho. It's your first time, isn't it?"

  My stomach knotted. In the game, these meetings were railroaded: pick the right dialogue option, pay the fee, and walk away. But here, every silence stretched too long, every gnce weighed too heavy. It had never felt this dangerous.

  His stare lingered where my skin met fabric, and a cold prickle crawled along my neck. The Guild dealt in smuggling, extortion, and worse. Which of those paths was he imagining for me?

  He clicked his tongue, a dry chuckle. "You're far too delicate for a pce like this. Why don't we continue somewhere more private?"

  The tavern seemed to lean in—dozens of eyes, circling like wolves. I needed to think. I could handle one predator, not a pack.

  "Yes," I finally said, pinning a smile to my face. "I'll trouble you for that."

  His grin widened as we climbed the creaking stairs. Heat from a dozen candles painted my back; eyes like embers traced the sway of my hips.

  His loft smelled of old wine and wet wool. It was sparsely furnished: one lumpy bed, one rickety desk, and a single chair.

  He took the chair, leaving me the bed. It creaked as I sat on it.

  "Thank you, Mister...?"

  "Harker." He kissed the back of my hand with an oily smack.

  "Cssless brutes, the lot of them," he said, mock-refined. "I try to set an example. But it's not easy, as you can see."

  "Yes. I'm feeling much safer now," I lied through grit teeth.

  A knock rattled the door, making me jump.

  "Enter."

  A waiter slipped in, set down a bottle and two gsses, then vanished as quickly as he came, tching the door behind him. Harker poured the drink slowly, his eyes watching every drop.

  "A toast," he said, sliding a gss across the desk. "To profitable new ventures."

  He caught my fingers as I reached for it, smiling as if to gauge my reaction. I entertained the thought that the kids picked the slimiest contact they knew in order to scare me off.

  Too bad. I was stubborn.

  We clinked gsses, and I touched the rim to my lips, breathing in the dark sweetness of the wine. But I dared not drink.

  "So? What is it you came to see me about?"

  "Mister Harker," I said. "I'd like you to steal something for me."

  In less than a week, a caravan bearing the Sacred Mask of Xolotl would depart from the Aurelian Duchy toward the royal capital. Each solstice, the artifact was transported between its two homes—the capital in the summer, and the Duchy in the winter—in homage to the trickster deity who straddled the line between life and death.

  Four days on the road. Four days of toil, monotony, and fatigue. It was the perfect window to strike.

  I didn't know the convoy's exact route or logistics; those details would fall to the Thieves' Guild. Truthfully, it didn't matter whether they succeeded. The Mask would end up in Evelyn's hands either way.

  What mattered was who guarded it.

  Ramón Huerta—the Lion's Pride. Mercenary Guildmaster. A man whose fall would set the underworld afme.

  The Thieves were destined to fail. Their botched ambush would plunge the caravan into chaos, and Ramón would die defending it. With his death, the cold war between the Mercenary Guild and the Thieves' Guild would erupt into open conflict.

  That was the trigger for Evelyn's advancement quest.

  Harker folded his hands, a furrow cutting between his brows. "It's a difficult job, given the security."

  "But not impossible." My jaw set. I'd rehearsed this conversation a dozen different ways; in none of them did I retreat.

  "A good deterrent isn't about making theft impossible," he said slowly, "only unprofitable."

  "Then I'll pay whatever it takes. The Mask has... sentimental value."

  I committed two deliberate errors in my offer, pying on his greed. The spark of something dark passed through his eyes.

  This was fine, I told myself. The quest only cared that the contract was commissioned—not what it would cost.

  "Then the price is simple. One hundred gold up front, then another thousand upon delivery."

  He drew up the paperwork and slid it across the desk. Without a moment's hesitation, I signed. The parchment pulsed; runes fred like embers and cooled. The faint tang of smoke lingered on the air.

  It was done. As long as I paid my share, the Guild's end was secured.

  A shiver ran up my spine, part awe, part relief. For a moment I wondered how many souls the Crown had bound with this magic.

  Contract magic was the exclusive domain of the royal family. Once entered into their ledger, a contract became immutable and inscrutable, its terms only reachable by Royal Inquisition.

  As such, each major guild had its patron; just as His Majesty sponsored the Mercenary Guild, the Crown Prince backed the Thieves. In exchange for being his eyes and ears, the Prince granted them immunity—justice could only be sought against the commissioner of a Guild contract, but never its executor.

  That was why this quest had to come first. When the dust settled, Evelyn would command one of the two great guilds. She could either seize the Thieves' Guild and feed the Prince false intelligence about the party—or destroy it outright, rendering him deaf and blind.

  Harker tapped the desk and snapped me out of my fascinated stupor. "Your payment, please."

  I upended the purse I'd borrowed from Rocher, letting coins spill across the wood. With practiced ease, he thumbed through the pile, counting under his breath.

  He set the st coin down with a clink and raised an eyebrow.

  "You're short," he said ftly. "About sixty gold."

  Heat crawled up my neck. In the game, money was simply numbers on a screen. As a nun I'd never handled denominations rger than silver—who knew gold could come in so many shapes and sizes?

  "I'll get you the rest tomorrow," I said, ashamed.

  He ughed, low and harsh. "Judging by your outfit, this is everything you own."

  He leaned forward and found the patchwork knee of my trousers. I froze. I was so close; the ink on the parchment had already dried. If I struck him now, all my effort would be for naught. If I could just convince him to let me go—

  "I'm willing to front you the money," he murmured, breath sour against my cheek, "but you'll have to do a favor for me."

  His thumb slid upward, tracing the inside of my thigh. My nails dug into the bedsheet. Panic and revulsion braided together, and my resolve wavered. My eyes flicked to the glint of steel tucked inside my bag.

  "Touch me again, and you lose your hand."

  "Rex, dear. You came to me, remember?"

  His tone shifted—no longer the clipped efficiency of a fixer, but the coaxing warmth of a man trying to sell something else.

  It was obvious now: he wasn't interested in the money. Maybe he never had been. I bit my lip and weighed my options.

  Was it time to cut and run? No windows in this room; the smoke hung stagnant in the air. The door was tched, but he must have had some way of calling that waiter earlier. Fourteen paces—that's how long it took to get here from the stairs.

  My thumb found the loop of the knife strap. I considered briefly whether to go for his eyes or throat. His goons below would swarm at the first sign of trouble. In that case, it had to be quiet...

  CRASH.

  Before I could act, the door burst inward with a splintering roar, punching a hole through the suffocating air.