The eggs were cold. Ryn poked at them with his fork. Three days since the robbery. Three days of Lyra hunting people across the Grey Mist. He should've felt relieved. Instead, his stomach hurt.
"—and that's why Forbidden Stones exhibit non-linear mana decay," Mira said. She'd been talking for ten minutes. Her glasses kept sliding down her nose. "The extraction process creates micro-fractures in the crystalline matrix, which means—"
"Mira."
"—the energy output degrades exponentially rather than—"
"Mira."
She blinked. Pushed her glasses up. "Sorry. Was I doing it again?"
"Little bit." Ryn sipped his tea. Too bitter. The Black Lotus Inn never got anything right. But it was cheap. And the owner didn't ask questions about the bloodstains Lyra tracked in last night.
The common room smelled like old grease and cheaper wine. Morning crowd was thin. Two merchants arguing over grain prices. A drunk sleeping in the corner. Normal Crossroad Town breakfast.
Mira twirled her fork. "I just think it's fascinating how—"
"Morning."
The voice came from behind. Cold. Flat. Like someone announcing a funeral.
Ryn turned.
The woman standing there was tall. Really tall. Six feet easy. Maybe more. Silver hair cut military short. Black armor that looked expensive. A scar cut across her left eyebrow. She wasn't smiling.
She sat down. Didn't ask. Just pulled out the chair and sat.
"Uh," Ryn said. His brain stalled. "This table's—"
"Occupied. I know." She folded her hands on the table. Her fingers were calloused. Fighter's hands. "Ryn Cardell. Owner of Cardell Trading Company. Also known as the man who moves Forbidden Stones through the Grey Mist."
The room got very quiet. Or maybe that was just Ryn's ears ringing.
"I think you have the wrong person," he said. Smiled. Tried to look confused. "I just sell steel. And sometimes silk. Very boring stuff."
"You're a terrible liar." The woman's eyes were grey. Like frozen water. "But that's fine. I'm not here to arrest you."
"Oh good. Great. Love not being arrested." Ryn's hand found his teacup. Gripped it. Tried to look casual. "So if you're not arresting me, maybe you could—"
"I'm here to hire you."
Mira dropped her fork. It clattered on the plate. Loud.
The woman didn't look at her. Just kept staring at Ryn. "My name is Eira Drask. I represent certain Northern interests. We require a steady supply of Forbidden Mana Stones. Eighty-nine percent purity or higher. Fifty stones per month."
Ryn's stomach dropped. Northern interests. That meant Khazan. That meant military. That meant the kind of people who made problems disappear.
"That's a lot of stones," he said. Kept his voice light. Friendly. "I'm not sure I have the capacity—"
"You moved forty-three stones last quarter. Through six different buyers. Your network extends into all three powers." Eira's face didn't change. "Don't waste my time with denials."
How did she know that? Those transactions were buried under three layers of front companies. Ryn's hand started sweating around the teacup.
"Even if I could," he said slowly, "Forbidden Stones are expensive. And risky. The kind of operation you're talking about would require serious capital. Insurance. Protection from—"
Eira reached out. Placed her hand flat on the table.
The wood cracked. Not a snap. A slow, grinding crunch. Splinters pushed up through the grain. The whole table split down the middle. Clean. Straight. Ryn's teacup tilted. He grabbed it before it fell.
His eggs slid onto the floor.
The drunk in the corner woke up. Looked around. Went back to sleep.
"Was that really necessary?" Ryn asked. His voice came out higher than intended.
"The Marshal doesn't accept refusals." Eira stood. Brushed splinters off her gloves. "Fifty stones per month. Standard market rate plus twenty percent. First delivery in two weeks. Crossroad Town, western gate, midnight."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you become a liability." She said it like she was commenting on the weather. "Liabilities get terminated. Usually with fire. Sometimes with poison. Depends on the Marshal's mood."
Ryn's mouth went dry. He'd heard stories about Northern executions. They weren't nice stories.
"Two weeks is tight," he said. Brain scrambling. Looking for an angle. Any angle. "And fifty stones is below my usual minimum. If you want priority service, I'd need at least sixty stones per order. Otherwise the risk—"
"Sixty?" Eira tilted her head. First expression he'd seen from her. Looked like she was calculating something. "You're negotiating up?"
"Quality control," Ryn said quickly. Too quickly. "Larger batches mean better supplier rates. I can guarantee the purity you want. Eighty-nine percent or better. But only if you let me work at scale."
That was complete nonsense. He was panicking. But sometimes panic sounded like confidence if you said it fast enough.
Eira stared at him. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
"Acceptable," she finally said. "Sixty stones. First delivery in two weeks. Payment on receipt."
She turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back.
"You're smarter than you look," she said. "Don't make me kill you."
Then she was gone. Walked right out the door. Didn't look back.
Ryn sat there. Stared at the broken table. At his eggs on the floor. At Mira, who looked like she was about to faint.
"Ryn?" Mira's voice was small. "What just happened?"
"I accidentally negotiated myself into a bigger deal."
"That's good though, right? More money?"
"Mira. That woman just casually threatened to murder me. And I responded by asking for more work." Ryn put his head in his hands. "I'm an idiot."
"You're not an idiot! You're—you're clever! And brave! And—"
"I'm going to die."
"No you won't!" Mira reached across the broken table. Grabbed his hand. Her fingers were ink-stained. Always were. "You always figure something out. Remember the time you talked your way past those Federation inspectors? Or when you convinced that merchant you'd already paid him?"
"This is different. That was merchants. Bureaucrats. This is the Northern Khazan Empire. They don't negotiate. They eliminate."
The innkeeper came over. Looked at the table. Looked at Ryn.
"That's coming out of your tab," he said.
"Of course it is."
Back at the warehouse, Ryn paced. Mira sat at the desk. Scribbled calculations on parchment. Her handwriting was terrible. Always was.
"Okay," she said. "If we assume a twenty percent markup on acquisition costs, and factor in transport fees, and account for the increased risk premium—"
"I'm dead."
"—we're looking at a profit margin of approximately—"
"Very dead."
"—thirty-eight percent per delivery, which over a quarterly period—"
"Mira." Ryn stopped pacing. "I don't have sixty Forbidden Stones. I don't even have six. The last batch got stolen, remember?"
"Oh. Right." She chewed her pen. Bad habit. Her teeth were stained blue from the ink. "So we need to find suppliers?"
"In two weeks. For sixty stones. Eighty-nine percent purity." Ryn laughed. It came out wrong. Borderline hysterical. "You know what happens to people who promise Northern military deliveries and don't deliver?"
"They get terminated?"
"With fire or poison, apparently. Mood dependent."
Mira's face went pale. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
The warehouse door slammed open. Lyra walked in. Blood on her coat. Not hers. She was carrying something. A bag. Heavy. Clinked when she dropped it.
"Found them," she said. Flat. Emotionless. Same tone she used for everything. "Two dead. One talked first."
Ryn's stomach turned. "Did you have to—"
"They shot at me." Lyra tilted her head. "Was I supposed to let them?"
"No, I just—never mind." He looked at the bag. "What's in there?"
"Your stones. Most of them." She kicked the bag toward him. "Seventy-three recovered. Sixteen sold already. Too late to trace."
Seventy-three. That was actually good news. Ryn crouched down. Opened the bag. The stones glowed faint blue in the dim light. Forbidden grade. High purity.
"The one who talked," Lyra continued. "Said they were hired. Professional job. Someone paid them to rob you specifically."
"Who?"
"Dead before he could say." She said it like she was reporting the weather. "But he mentioned gold. Lots of it. Federation money."
Federation. That narrowed it down to about five thousand possible suspects. Ryn rubbed his temples. Getting a headache.
"This is good though," Mira said. Tried to sound cheerful. Failed. "We have seventy-three stones! That's more than sixty!"
"We need sixty every month," Ryn said. "This is a one-time recovery. I still need suppliers. Multiple suppliers. The kind who can source Forbidden grade consistently."
Lyra was staring at him. That intense stare she did. Made him uncomfortable.
"What?"
"You're taking the contract," she said. Wasn't a question.
"I don't have much choice. Woman who can break tables with her hand generally gets what she wants."
"Dangerous."
"Everything's dangerous. I live in the Grey Mist. Safe went out the window when I was twelve."
Lyra moved closer. She was short. Barely came up to his shoulder. But somehow she was intimidating anyway. Maybe the knives helped. Or the blood. Definitely the blood.
"I'll protect you," she said.
"That's literally your job. I'm paying you for that."
"Not just from robbers." Her eyes were dark. Very dark. "From everyone. The Northern woman. The Federation. Anyone who tries to hurt you."
"That's... really not necessary—"
"It is necessary." Lyra's hand went to her dagger. Rested there. "You saved me. No one saves me. Everyone uses me. You were different."
Oh no. Ryn recognized that look. He'd seen it before. On his mentor's face right before the old man drank himself to death over a merchant's daughter.
"Lyra. I hired you. That's not saving, that's employment—"
"Same thing."
"It's really not—"
"I won't let them take you." She said it so simply. Like stating a fact. "The Northern woman. She looked at you like asset. Like tool. I'll kill her if she tries."
"Please don't kill the terrifying military agent who can break tables with her hands."
"Why not?"
"Because she'll kill me first!"
Mira made a weird noise. Half laugh, half squeak. "I think Lyra likes you, Ryn."
"She doesn't like me. She's professionally obligated to keep me alive. There's a difference."
"No," Lyra said. "There isn't."
The way she said it made Ryn's skin prickle. He needed to change the subject. Fast.
"Okay. New plan. Mira, I need you to compile a list of every black market stone dealer in the Grey Mist. Cross-reference with purity ratings and reliability scores. Lyra, I need you to—"
"Guard you."
"—actually I was going to say investigate the Federation angle, but sure, guarding works too."
Mira was already scribbling. Muttering to herself. Something about supply chains and risk matrices. She got like that when she had a project.
Ryn looked at the recovered stones. Seventy-three. Enough for one delivery. Maybe two if he stretched it. But after that?
After that, he was gambling with his life.
Across town, in the Goldspire Merchant Guild's satellite office, a messenger delivered a report.
The woman reading it had golden hair. Wore silk. Smiled like a fox.
"Interesting," Seraphine Goldweaver said. She tapped the parchment. "Target has Northern backing. Eira Drask personally recruiting him."
Her assistant looked nervous. "Should we proceed with acquisition?"
"Of course." Seraphine's smile widened. "A man with Northern connections is even more valuable. Continue surveillance. And send a gift. Something personal. I want him to know he has options."
"What kind of gift?"
"The expensive kind." She stood. Smoothed her dress. "If the North wants him, he's worth more than we thought. Time to make an investment."
The assistant bowed. Left quickly.
Seraphine looked out the window. Toward the warehouse district. Toward Cardell Trading Company.
"Let's see how clever you really are, Mr. Cardell."