The knock on the door wasn't violent. It was worse. It was firm, rhythmic, and confident. Three sharp knocks that said, *We're here. We know you're in there. And we're not leaving.*
I shared a look with Eli. His face was a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but his eyes were tight. I straightened my shoulders. "Let them in."
He opened the door to two men. One was built like a brick wall, his arms crossed over a chest that strained the fabric of his cheap leather tunic. The other was smaller, wiry, with eyes that kept darting around the room, cataloging its meager valuables. They weren't thugs; they were professionals. They were used to this.
"Viscount Damien," the big one said, his voice a low rumble. "Baron Kessler requires his payment."
"Of course he does," I said, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. I had to buy time. I couldn't solve this, but I could delay it. "It's being arranged."
The smaller man snorted. "That's what you said last week."
"And last week I was mistaken," I replied, forcing a calm I absolutely did not feel. I felt the [Silver Tongue] skill stir at the back of my mind, a subtle warmth. "A new source of funds has been secured. The money will be delivered by sunset."
The big man studied me. His gaze wasn't hostile, just... assessing. He was looking for the usual cracks—the panic, the desperation, the begging. He wasn't finding them.
"Sunset," he repeated. It wasn't a question.
"Sunset," I confirmed. "You have my word."
The two men exchanged a glance. It was the smaller one who spoke first. "The Baron isn't a patient man, Viscount."
"Tell the Baron he'll have his money," I said, my voice dropping a little, letting some of Damien's natural arrogance bleed through. It felt like wearing a coat that was one size too big. "Do we have an agreement?"
The big man nodded slowly. "Sunset." He turned and left, the smaller man following, pulling the door closed behind them.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and sagged against the table. Eli was staring at me.
"Sunset, Young Master?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism. "What funds?"
"I have no fucking idea," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "But I just bought us about eight hours. That's something."
I started pacing. The room felt too small, a cage made of debt and bad decisions. I needed a solution, not a delay. My mind raced, frantically flipping through the garbage plot of the novel I'd been reading. It was a mess of melodrama and convenient coincidences, but somewhere in there had to be something useful.
I stopped pacing. *The merchant.*
It was a minor arc, a footnote. A side character who was almost ruined because a shipment was stuck. The novel's hero, the prince, had been too busy brooding to help, but the Ice Duke—Darius—had solved it with a single command, earning the merchant's fierce loyalty.
*What was her name? Isolda. Isolda Verne. The silk trader.*
The problem came back to me in a frustrated rush. Her shipment of rare eastern silks was held up at the city's North Gate. A customs officer named Grell had "misplaced" the paperwork and was now demanding a bribe that would bankrupt her. If the shipment sat there much longer, the silks would be damaged by the damp sea air, or worse, confiscated.
In the book, Darius had simply sent a captain to sort it out. I didn't have a captain. But I had information. And in a city built on bureaucracy, information was a weapon.
"Eli," I said, my voice sharp. "Find me my least ostentatious but still respectable set of clothes. The ones that say 'I'm a noble, but don't look at me too hard'."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't ask questions. "The grey traveling coat, Young Master?"
"Perfect. And don't call me 'Young Master' while we're out. Just call me Damien."
Twenty minutes later, I was walking through the market district. The air was thick with the smell of fish, dust, and sweat. People moved out of my way, but not with respect. They whispered behind their hands. I could hear the word "Viscount" followed by snickers. Damien's reputation was a cloud I was walking through. It was humiliating.
I found the warehouse near the docks, just as I remembered from the book. A small crowd of agitated workers stood outside, and a woman in her mid-thirties with her hair in a tight, practical bun was yelling at a portly city official. That had to be Isolda Verne.
I waited until the official scurried away before I approached. She turned, her face a mask of stress and anger, which quickly hardened into suspicion when she saw me.
"Viscount Damien," she said, her voice cold. "To what do I owe the dubious honor?"
"I don't need your trust," I said, keeping my voice calm and direct, just as I'd planned. "I need your problem. Your shipment of eastern silks is being held at the North Gate by Officer Grell, who is demanding a fifty-gold bribe he knows you can't pay. He'll wait another two days, then declare the paperwork 'irretrievably lost' and confiscate the goods to sell on the black market."
Isolda stared at me, her mouth slightly open. The [Silver Tongue] skill helped, making my words sound confident and certain, not like a lucky guess.
"How do you know this?" she demanded, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I know things," I said, which was a terrible, arrogant line, but it worked. "I can resolve this for you before sunset."
She crossed her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing. "What do you want?"
"Twenty gold," I said. "And one favor, which I will name at a later date."
"Ten gold."
"Fifteen, and the favor is non-negotiable."
She studied me for a long time, weighing the costs. She was a businesswoman, and I was offering a high-risk, high-reward solution. Finally, she gave a sharp, decisive nod. "Fifteen gold if my silks are released today. Now, how will you do it?"
"I'll be back," I said, turning and walking away before she could ask more questions.
As I stepped out of the alley and back onto the main street, a chill ran down my spine. It wasn't the cold air. It was the feeling of being watched. I glanced around casually, my eyes scanning the crowd. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then I saw it.
A sleek, black carriage with the crest of House Blackwood—a silver wolf's head on a field of black—was rolling slowly down the street, paused in the traffic. The window was cracked open just enough for me to see a sliver of a pale face and a pair of piercing, silver-grey eyes.
Darius. He was just sitting there, watching. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched me with that same cold, analytical curiosity from the banquet. He had seen me talking to Isolda.
I quickly looked away and kept walking, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had solved one problem, but I had just created a much bigger one. I wasn't just a bug anymore; I was a bug that had learned a new trick. And the hunter had noticed.