The Exiled Merchant

By the time I reached my loft, the last of the lamps along the main thoroughfare had guttered out, their iron casings hissing faintly in the damp night air. The city of Varnholt exhaled a weary quiet, its cobbled streets slick with mist and the memory of rain. The stairs to my loft creaked under my boots, each step groaning like a confession I wasn't ready to make. A thin draft slipped under the door as I fumbled with the latch, carrying the damp smell of old brick, last year's ashes, and the faint, bitter tang of coal smoke from the foundries across the river.

Inside, the cold was waiting, patient as a creditor. The room was spare—a narrow cot, a table scarred by years of use, a single chair, and shelves sagging under the weight of ledgers and forgotten promises. The shutters rattled faintly, their cracks admitting slivers of moonlight that silvered the floorboards. I set the iron seal on the table, its dull gleam catching the faint glow. It was heavier than it looked, its edges etched with angular sigils that seemed to shift when I didn't stare directly at them.

A week ago, I would have hesitated to touch something like this—a mark of authority older than the guild's charter, belonging to no sanction I understood, its origins whispered in the shadowed corners of Varnholt's counting houses. Now, I felt only a tired curiosity, worn thin by days of questions with no answers. I unbuttoned my coat, the leather stiff with cold, and laid the folded parchment beside the seal. From my satchel, I unwrapped the waxed cloth from the bread and cheese I'd bought that afternoon at the market, the vendor's wary glance lingering in my memory. Each motion felt deliberate, a ritual to anchor myself in something familiar amidst the unraveling edges of my life.

When I had eaten, the bread's crust brittle and the cheese sharp on my tongue, I lit the candle with a match that flared briefly, its sulfur sting biting the air. The flame steadied, casting a warm pool of light across the table. I unfolded the parchment again, its creases soft from handling. Six names stared back at me, written in a precise hand, each accompanied by the same angular sigil—sharp lines crossing a central circle, like a blade piercing a wheel. They meant nothing to me: no faces, no voices, no debts owed or favors called. Some part of me had hoped that seeing them again in this quiet room, far from the guild's stone halls and Elinne's probing gaze, would make the choice clearer. It did not.

I turned the page over, searching for any hidden note, any watermark or smudge that might offer context. But the back was blank, as empty as the answers I'd carried back from the tribunal. Sighing, I set it aside and drew the ledger toward me. Its cover was worn smooth by weeks of handling, the corners blunted by damp and travel, its pages heavy with the weight of transactions, failures, and half-truths. I opened it to the last filled page, my eyes settling on the final line, written in my own uneven hand:

*Payment received: 10 silver drakes. Markings failed.*

The ink had dried unevenly, as if the quill itself had doubted the wisdom of recording it. The markings—sigils not unlike those on the seal—had been my task, etched into stone at a crossroads beyond the city's walls, meant to bind or ward or summon, depending on who you asked. They hadn't worked, or so the guild claimed. I pressed my palm flat against the paper, feeling the faint chill that had begun to cling to everything I touched—my hands, my thoughts, the very air of this room.

Elinne was right about one thing: the guild feared what they couldn't name. And I had become precisely that—a man whose failures had outgrown their explanations, whose questions had begun to unravel the delicate threads of their authority.

---

I closed the ledger and leaned back in the chair, its wood creaking under my weight. Through the cracked shutters, I could see the roofs across the alley, their slates silvered with frost under a sky heavy with stars. A single wisp of chimney smoke trailed upward from a distant house, curling like a question before vanishing into the darkness. The city slept, or pretended to, its pulse slowed but never stilled.

My thoughts drifted to the tribunal's gray-robed judges, their faces carved from stone as they recited my infractions—markings improperly set, debts unpaid, loyalty unproven. To the counting house clerk, his measured curiosity as he handed me the iron seal, his voice low: *"This comes from higher than us, you know. Keep it close."* And to Elinne, her cool certainty in the parchment's names, her parting words in the tavern's dim light: *"You'll come when called. A man with nothing to lose is always valuable."*

But what of a man who had already ceased to belong to the order they served? The guild's sigils, their oaths, their ledgers—they no longer held me, yet their weight pressed against my chest, a shadow I couldn't shake. I was no traitor, not yet, but I was no longer theirs. The candle flickered, its flame wavering as if caught in a draft I couldn't feel, drawing my gaze. I watched it dance for a long time, its light a fragile defiance against the cold, before blowing it out with a breath that tasted of ash.

---

Sleep came slowly, reluctant as a debtor dodging a summons. When it did, it was a restless tide, pulling me through fragmented images: coins gleaming in firelight, only to crumble into ash, seals dissolving into powder beneath my fingers, doors closing one after another, their locks clicking like judgments. I tried to speak, to call out names or truths, but my voice was swallowed by silence, heavy and absolute. In the end, there was only the endless quiet, pressing against me like a weight.

I woke to the hush of snow against the shutters, a faint patter that softened the world's edges. For a moment, I lay still, the cold seeping into my bones, wondering if the dreams had been any truer than the daylight. But when I sat up, the ledger and the folded parchment were still there, waiting on the table like accusations. The seal gleamed faintly, its sigils catching the gray light filtering through the cracks.

I dressed, the wool of my shirt scratching against my skin, and ate what remained of the bread, though it had gone hard at the edges and tasted of the market's damp. The small rituals—chewing, buckling my belt, lacing my boots—helped steady my thoughts, grounding me in the present. By noon, I had made my decision. I would meet the names on the list. If Elinne thought them useful, I could not afford to dismiss that counsel, not when the guild's eyes were already narrowing. And if she meant to use me as a lever against their authority, so be it. Better to be the lever than the fulcrum, crushed beneath someone else's weight.

---

The day passed without interruption, the snow falling steadily, blanketing Varnholt in a hush that felt almost conspiratorial. I stayed inside, sharpening my knife, mending a tear in my coat, tasks that kept my hands busy while my mind turned over the names, the seal, the guild's silence. Once, I thought I saw a figure standing at the far end of the alley—a man in a dark coat, unmoving even as the snow gathered on his shoulders, his face obscured by shadow. My pulse quickened, but when I looked again, the place was empty, the snow undisturbed. I told myself it had been a trick of the light, a flicker of paranoia born of too many sleepless nights.

---

Dusk came early, the sun barely clearing the rooftops before it sank behind the western stacks, their chimneys belching smoke that merged with the gray sky. The city settled into blue shadow, its lanterns flickering to life like wary eyes. I was setting a fresh page into the ledger, the paper crisp against my fingers, when the knock came—three measured raps, softer than any courier's summons, deliberate as a code.

I closed the ledger, its cover snapping shut with a muted thud, and crossed to the door, my boots silent on the floorboards. When I opened it, no one stood on the landing. The stairwell was empty, its shadows pooling in the corners. Only a folded scrap of parchment rested on the threshold, weighted by a smooth pebble, its surface slick with melting snow. I knelt, my fingers brushing the cold stone, and picked it up. The wax seal was plain—unmarked, the color of old bone, brittle as if it might crumble under pressure.

Inside, the message was short, written in a hand I didn't recognize:

*You are being watched.*

Nothing more. No threat, no signature, no hint of intent. I read it twice, the words sinking into me like a blade slipped between ribs. Folding the note, I slid it into my coat's inner pocket, where it rested against the parchment of names, their weights entwined.

The cold felt deeper now, as if it had crept beneath my skin, settling in my bones. I closed the door and barred it, though I knew such precautions were a comfort more than a defense. At the table, I set the iron seal beside the new note, their edges catching the candle's faltering light. Two tokens of a life I had not chosen, each pointing in opposite directions—one toward the guild's shadowed authority, the other toward an unknown watcher, their motives as opaque as the snow-veiled city.

---

The candle sputtered low, its wax pooling on the table, throwing long shadows across the ledger's open pages. I did not move to extinguish it. Let the watchers see their mark by lamplight, if they were out there. I had nothing left to conceal—not my doubts, not my failures, not the questions that burned brighter than any flame.

I leaned back, the chair creaking, and stared at the ceiling, its beams etched with years of smoke and time. Somewhere in Varnholt, the guild's wheels turned, Elinne's plans unfolded, and unseen eyes followed my steps. I was no longer theirs, but I was not yet free. The names, the seal, the note—they were threads in a tapestry I couldn't yet see, leading me out of the city, perhaps, to the roads and villages where trust and ash would shape my path.

For now, I waited, the ledger open, the candle burning, the snow falling like a veil over all I had left behind.