Ryn was already owned by one killer. Now a rich one wanted a contract. The invitation arrived on cream-colored paper. Thick. Expensive. The kind that cost more than his boots.
"Master Cardell," Mira read aloud, adjusting her ink-stained glasses. "Lady Seraphine Goldweaver requests your presence at her estate. A matter of mutual prosperity." She looked up. "That's... that's the richest house in the Federation."
Ryn's stomach dropped. "Yeah. I know."
"Why would she—"
"Because I'm screwed, Mira." Ryn slumped in his chair. The office smelled like old paper and cheaper lamp oil. "I need sixty Forbidden Stones in two weeks. My suppliers are gone. And apparently the Goldweaver House has been watching me."
"Oh." Mira bit her lip. "That's bad."
"Thanks. Hadn't realized."
She shuffled papers nervously. Made them worse. "Actually, according to the Merchant Guild records, Seraphine Goldweaver has a 94% success rate in contract negotiations. Which sounds good, but—"
"But it means she always wins." Ryn rubbed his face. Two days since Eira Drask had crushed his table. Two days of panic. "Fine. What choice do I have?"
None. That was the answer.
The carriage Seraphine sent was nicer than Ryn's entire warehouse. Velvet seats. Gold trim. It even smelled expensive—like imported flowers and something sweet he couldn't name.
Mira kept touching everything. "This is genuine Silverpine leather! Do you know how much—"
"Stop." Ryn's hands were sweating. "You're making it worse."
"Sorry." She wasn't sorry. She was practically vibrating with excitement. "But Master Ryn, this is incredible! The Goldweaver Estate is famous. They say the main hall has thirty-foot ceilings and—"
The carriage rounded a corner.
Mira stopped talking.
"Oh," she whispered.
Yeah. Oh.
The Goldweaver Estate wasn't a house. It was a statement. White marble columns rose like accusations. The garden had actual gold leaf on the fountain statues. The front door alone was bigger than Ryn's entire office.
He felt poor just looking at it.
"I want to go home," Ryn muttered.
"Too late." The carriage stopped. A servant opened the door. Not just any servant—this guy's uniform probably cost more than Ryn made in a month.
Inside was worse. Marble floors reflected back at him. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead like frozen waterfalls. The air even felt rich—perfumed, cool, perfect.
Mira made a small squeaking noise.
"Pull it together," Ryn hissed.
"But—"
"Master Cardell!" The voice was silk and honey. "How wonderful you could make it."
Ryn turned.
And immediately regretted every life choice that led to this moment.
Seraphine Goldweaver. The richest woman in the Federation. And the kind of danger you smile at. She didn't need knives. Money did the cutting.
Golden curls framed a face too perfect to be fair. Her dress probably cost more than Ryn's warehouse. Silk. Jewelry. A smile that said she knew exactly what effect she had.
Ryn's brain stopped working.
"I... uh... thank you for the... the thing." Brilliant. Very smooth.
Her smile widened. Like a cat that found a particularly amusing mouse. "The invitation? My pleasure. Please, come in. Your assistant as well."
She turned and walked. Her hips swayed. Ryn tried not to notice. Failed completely.
Mira elbowed him. "Stop staring."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
They followed through corridors that made Ryn feel like a stain on expensive carpet. Paintings worth fortunes. Sculptures from the Southern Academies. Everything screamed money.
Finally, a study. Books lined the walls. A desk sat in the center—actual darkwood, not the cheap pine Ryn used. Windows overlooked gardens that probably had full-time gardeners. Plural.
"Please, sit." Seraphine gestured to chairs that were definitely too nice for Ryn's clothes.
Ryn sat. Tried not to touch anything. Mira perched on the edge of her seat like a nervous bird.
"I'll be direct," Seraphine said. She moved to a side table, her movements practiced and elegant. "I've been watching your operation, Master Cardell. Impressive work for someone so... independent."
Independent meant broke. Ryn knew this game.
"Thank you?" he tried.
"You move rare goods. Quietly. Efficiently." She remained standing, creating a subtle power dynamic. "I respect that. But you're limited by capital. Your recent... setback... proves it."
His recent robbery. The one that took 16 Forbidden Stones and nearly killed him.
"I'm rebuilding," Ryn said carefully.
"With what funds?" She smiled. "I did my research. You're overextended. You owe the Northern Empire a significant delivery in..." She checked an actual gold watch. "Thirteen days now."
Mira tensed beside him. Ryn's mouth went dry.
"How did you—"
"I know everything that happens in the Grey Mist, darling." She walked back to her desk. "That's why I'm making you an offer. Unlimited funds. Access to my supplier network. Protection from your competitors."
This was too good. Way too good.
"And in exchange?" Ryn asked.
"Exclusivity." She produced a document. Thick. Official seals. "Any rare artifact you acquire—Forbidden Stones, enchanted weapons, restricted spell scrolls—comes to me first. Standard market rate, of course. Plus a small partnership fee."
Ryn's instincts screamed. "Define small."
"Twenty percent of your annual profits." Her smile never wavered. "Very reasonable."
Mira started to say something. Ryn grabbed her arm.
"Can I... can I read that?" Ryn reached for the contract.
"Of course!" Seraphine handed it over. Her fingers brushed his. Lingered. "Take your time."
The contract was forty-seven pages. Forty-seven. Dense legal text. Federation merchant code. Clauses within clauses.
Ryn started reading. His eyes glazed over by page three.
"...in perpetuity until such time as the contracted party..."
"...with full rights of inspection and seizure should..."
"...personal assets held as collateral against..."
This was bad. This was very bad.
"Um." Mira leaned over. Whispered. "Master Ryn. This says—"
"I know," Ryn muttered back.
"But—"
"I know."
Ryn looked up at Seraphine. She was watching him. Patient. Amused.
"This is basically indentured servitude," Ryn said flatly.
She laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was like bells. Annoying, pretty bells. "Oh, darling. Such dramatic words. It's a standard partnership agreement."
"Standard? This says if I default, you own everything. My warehouse, my assets, my—" Ryn flipped pages frantically. "My personal possessions?"
"Only as collateral." She waved a hand. Dismissive. "Which you won't need, because I'll be funding everything. No risk of default."
"Unless you decide there is."
Her smile sharpened. "Unless the contracted party fails to meet agreed terms. But you wouldn't do that, would you?"
Ryn stood. "Thanks for the generous offer, but I'm not signing this."
"Are you certain?" Seraphine rose as well. Moved closer. Too close. "Because from where I'm standing, you need this. Sixty Forbidden Stones. Thirteen days. No suppliers."
"I'll figure it out."
"How?" Another step. She smelled like jasmine and money. "The Black Market won't touch you. The Academy has you flagged. And the Northern Empire..." She tilted her head. "Well. Marshal Drask's daughter isn't known for patience."
Ryn backed up. Hit the desk. Trapped.
"I—I'll manage."
"You'll fail." Her hand touched his chest. Light. Casual. "And then what? Eira Drask comes collecting. Do you know what happens to people who disappoint the Empire?"
He did. Everyone did.
"But with me," Seraphine continued, "you're safe. Protected. Prosperous." Her other hand came up. Adjusted his collar. "All you have to do is sign."
Ryn's brain was screaming. Multiple alarms. Red flags everywhere.
His body, unfortunately, was distracted. She was very close. Very attractive. Very much touching him.
"This is a terrible idea," Ryn managed.
"Most good ideas are." Her fingers trailed down. "At first."
"Seraphine—"
"Just think about it." She stepped back. The loss of contact felt like cold water. "You have thirteen days. I have resources. It's simple mathematics."
"Nothing's ever simple."
"Then complicate it your way." She returned to her desk. Picked up the contract. "But when you run out of time and options, you'll come back. They always do."
She was right. Gods, she was right. Ryn had 73 stones. Needed 60. That left 13 for his own deals. Not enough margin. One accident and he was dead.
Mira tugged his sleeve. "Master Ryn. We should go."
"Yeah." Ryn couldn't look away from Seraphine. "Yeah, we should."
"The offer stands," Seraphine said. "Twenty-four hours. After that, I might need to... adjust the terms."
That was a threat. Polite, wrapped in silk, but definitely a threat.
Ryn grabbed Mira and left. Walked fast through those perfect corridors. Past the marble and gold and everything that reminded him how small he was.
The carriage ride back was silent. Mira kept glancing at Ryn. Worried.
"Don't," Ryn said.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. Don't."
She bit her lip. "The contract is predatory."
"I know."
"Clause 47 specifically states—"
"I know, Mira!" Ryn slumped in his seat. Rubbed his face. "I know it's bad. I know she's playing me. I know I should run."
"Then why..." Mira trailed off.
Because he was desperate. Because Eira Drask would kill him if he failed. Because he was out of options.
Because despite everything, some tiny stupid part of his brain was still thinking about jasmine perfume and golden curls.
"I'm an idiot," Ryn muttered.
"You're not an—"
"Yes. I am."
They got back to the warehouse after dark. The building looked smaller now. Shabbier. Like Seraphine's mansion had ruined it just by comparison.
Inside, Ryn went straight to his desk. Pulled out his ledger. The numbers hadn't changed.
73 Forbidden Stones in inventory.
60 due to Eira in 13 days.
13 left over.
He needed those 13 for other deals. For living expenses. For the ten other problems breathing down his neck.
Mira lingered in the doorway. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"We could try—"
"There is no 'try,' Mira. There's panic and slightly controlled panic. Those are the options."
She left him alone after that.
Ryn stared at the ledger. At the contract Seraphine had let him take—another power move, proof she knew he'd come back.
He flipped to page 47.
Clause 47: Asset Seizure Protocol
In the event of default, breach, or failure to meet contracted obligations, all personal and business assets of the contracted party become property of Goldweaver House, including but not limited to: real estate, inventory, accounts receivable, trade contacts, and any items of value held in possession or storage.
Everything. She'd own everything.
But if he didn't sign, Eira would kill him.
If he did sign, Seraphine would own him.
"Great," Ryn said to the empty room. "Perfect. This is fine."
It wasn't fine.
It wasn't fine at all.
Somewhere across the city, in that perfect mansion, Seraphine was probably reviewing other contracts. Ryn could picture it. Gold. Silk. Her smile.
She'd seen the look in his eyes. The desperation. The fear.
He'd sign. They both knew it.
And when he did, she'd have her exclusive pipeline into the Forbidden Stone trade. Direct access to the rarest goods in three nations. All for the cost of a little capital and some... personal attention.
Ryn stood by the window, looking at the lights of Goldspire in the distance.
"Welcome to the game," he muttered.
He was about to make a choice he'd regret.