Chapter 17 – A Withering Edge
The walk back to the loft was slower than I intended.
Snow had drifted ankle-deep in the narrow lanes, blurring the prints of any who passed before me. Each step felt heavier, as if the city itself were testing how far I would go before turning back.
I did not turn back.
---
When I reached my door, I paused to look up and down the landing. No movement. No sound but the wind pressing against the shutters.
Still, I felt the certainty that I was not alone.
I stepped inside and bolted the door behind me.
The cold had seeped into the walls. Even with the candle lit, the shadows clung to the corners like damp cloth.
I set the copper token Marin had given me on the table beside the iron seal and the folded list.
Two names crossed, four remaining.
It should have felt like progress.
Instead, it felt like a reckoning that had only just begun.
---
I unbuttoned my coat and hung it on the peg by the door. As I turned back to the table, my eye caught on something that hadn't been there when I left.
A sprig of wintergreen lay on the ledger's cover. The leaves were glossy, the stem freshly cut.
No note. No sign of forced entry.
I reached out and lifted it between thumb and forefinger.
For an instant, nothing happened.
Then the green leached away as though drawn through my skin.
I watched in silence as the stem withered to ash, leaving a brittle husk that fell apart at the lightest touch.
---
I did not move for a long time.
---
When at last I sat, it was with the knowledge that whatever watched me had grown bolder.
And whatever I carried was no longer content to drain only the inanimate.
---
I opened the ledger and made a careful note of the moment. The date. The hour.
Then I closed it again and set my hand on the cover, feeling the faint cold still clinging to my skin.
---
If the watchers meant to drive me to fear, they would have to try harder.
---
By the time the last light had left the window, I had decided whose door I would knock on next.
I left before dawn.
The loft felt smaller with each hour I spent inside, as if the walls themselves were closing around me.
I carried no more than I needed: the ledger, the folded list, the iron seal wrapped in cloth. The copper token from Ves rested in my pocket, a small assurance that not every door would close in my face.
Outside, the snow had hardened overnight into a brittle crust. My boots cracked it with each step, leaving a trail as clear as any signature.
I did not bother to disguise my passing.
---
The third name was Ilen Hart, once a broker of dyed silks along the canal quarter.
Rumor said he had fled when the guild accused him of laundering contraband, only to return months later with debts no honest trade could repay.
Of all the names, his was the least predictable.
Which made him the most valuable.
---
I reached the canal quarter as the first light slid between the warehouses, turning the frozen water to dull silver.
Hart's shopfront stood empty, the windows shuttered tight. A single lantern burned behind the slats, proof that someone still kept watch.
I knocked twice.
No answer.
I waited, the cold settling into my collar.
At last, the lantern shifted. The door cracked open a hand's width.
A thin face appeared—pale, hollow-eyed, framed by lank hair gone more gray than black.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Ren Arcanon," I said.
He studied me with a blank curiosity that did not soften.
"I'm not buying," he said flatly.
"I'm not selling."
The door began to close.
I drew the iron seal from my pocket and held it where the light caught the chased flame.
"I came to offer you a chance."
He hesitated, mouth working as though tasting the words.
"I don't deal with Elinne anymore."
"Then deal with me."
His gaze flicked to the seal, then back to my face.
"Why should I?"
"Because you've already lost everything once," I said quietly. "And you survived."
---
The door closed.
I waited.
Thirty heartbeats later, it opened again.
Wider, this time.
Hart stepped aside without meeting my eyes.
"Five minutes," he said. "No more."
---
Inside, the air smelled of dust and old dye vats. The shelves were bare save for a few cracked jars and a ledger so faded the ink had leached into the paper.
Hart sank onto a low stool and rubbed a hand over his face.
"What is it you think I can do?"
"Help me move what the guild can't see," I said. "Or won't admit exists."
He gave a rasping laugh, the sound more bitter than amused.
"I tried that once. Ask me how it ended."
"I don't have to," I said. "You're still here."
He looked up then, and for the first time, I saw something flicker behind the exhaustion.
"Not by choice," he said.
"Perhaps not," I agreed. "But you have one now."
---
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the wind worrying the shutters.
At last, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You're the one they say can't be touched," he said.
I kept my voice steady.
"Say what you mean."
"The coins," he murmured. "The wards. They fail when you touch them."
I did not answer.
Hart's eyes met mine, searching for denial.
When he found none, he exhaled slowly.
"If I help you, it won't be for profit," he said.
"No?"
"It will be to see them choke on what they tried to bury."
---
I inclined my head.
"Then we understand each other."
He reached for a scrap of parchment and a stump of charcoal.
"I can put you in touch with a man who moves silk upriver," he said. "No guild ledger records his cargo."
"Write it."
He did, hands trembling just enough to blur the first letter of the name.
When he finished, he folded the scrap and held it out to me.
"Take it," he said. "And if you betray me—"
"You'll never see me again," I said.
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"No," he said. "If you betray me, I'll make sure I do."
---
I slipped the scrap into my coat.
Hart looked away, as though already regretting his decision.
Without another word, I stepped back into the cold.
---
Three doors opened.
Three names crossed.
And still, the watchers waited.