"Iâll show you," he replied, calmly. "But not here."
Her jaw tightened. "Obviously not here."
He nodded, the brick scraping his hair.
"I understand the terms. No names. No public. No leaks. Fine." He sighed, as if conceding ground. "But I want a percentage of your profits."
Her eyes narrowed to slits, the alleyâs shadows seeming to deepen with her glare. "You said you didnât want profits."
"I said the
Light
doesnât want profits," he corrected, holding her gaze this time, unblinking.
"The Lightâs above money. Iâm not. Iâm the one doing the work. Iâm not getting anything out of this otherwise."
She stared, breath held, her fingers testing the fabric of his shirt like she was calculating how many threads to snap.
Her braidâs tail brushed her shoulder with an invisible twitch.
The alley held its breath, the air between Lor and Ameth strung tight as a bowstring, each waiting for the other to flinch.
Her grip on his shirt was unrelenting, her knuckles white against the fabric, her icy blue eyes boring into him with a mix of defiance and calculation.
The distant market noiseâtin bells, haggling voices, the clatter of cartsâfelt like a world away, leaving only the faint tick of the rain pipe and the weight of their unspoken stakes.
Lorâs lips twitched, teetering on the edge of a smile he didnât let bloom. "So, forty percent," he said, his voice low, testing the waters.
Amethâs eyes narrowed to slits, sharp enough to cut. "Ten."
"Forty," he repeated, as if her counter had dissolved into the damp air.
"Fifteen."
He tilted his head, just enough to let the silence stretch, watching the subtle shift in her stanceâher braid brushing her shoulder as she shifted her weight, betraying a flicker of impatience. "Thirty-five."
"Twenty," she shot back, her tone clipped, unyielding.
Lor glanced up at the narrow strip of sky slicing through the alleyâs high walls, as if consulting some unseen arbiter.
His gaze slid back to her, steady and deliberate.
"Thirty. Non-negotiable."
Her jaw tightened, a muscle twitching faintly. "Youâre not worth that much."
"Maybe not," he admitted, his voice almost playful, but his eyes held a glint of steel. "But the Lightâs blessing is. And Iâm the only one offering it."
They stood locked in that shadowed standoff, the marketâs distant hum a faint heartbeat against the alleyâs quiet.
Her gaze didnât waver, searching his face for any crack, any hint of bluff. He held steady, letting her weigh him, the deal, the risk.
Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound slicing through the tension. "Thirty," she said, her voice low and grudging. "And thatâs me being generous. You fuck it up, you donât get a coin, but I get your broken teeth."
"Thirty, then," Lor agreed, his tone smooth, sealing the pact.
Ameth didnât spare another word once the deal was struck at thirty percent.
Her fingers released Lorâs shirt unfurling, as if she resented even that brief contact.
She straightened her tunic, the grey fabric settling over her curves, and stepped out of the alley without a backward glance, as if the charged moment between them had been nothing more than a stray breeze.
Lor lingered, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering press of her knuckles, the brickâs cold bite still tingling through his shirt.
Then he followed, stepping back into the sunlightâs glare.
"Follow," she said over her shoulder, her voice a low blade, barely audible above the marketâs clamor. "From a distance. I donât want anyone thinking weâre acquainted."
Lor didnât argue.
He fell back, keeping a careful ten paces between them, blending into the crowdâs rhythm.
The market swallowed her effortlesslyâher blonde braid swaying like a metronome against her back, the subtle roll of her hips drawing eyes she didnât seem to notice.
Or maybe she did, and just didnât care.
Lor noticed, though, his gaze lingering despite himself, tracing the way her practical skirt hugged her form as she maneuvered her cart through the throng.
They wove through the cityâs veins, leaving the marketâs chaos for narrower side streets where cobblestones grew uneven, worn smooth by time and indifference.
Shuttered workshops and faded signboards replaced the vibrant stalls, the air shifting from the warm pulse of bread and smoke to the damp, green breath of the outskirts.
Here, the houses crouched lowâsquat, half-timbered, their plaster patched like old scars, built for function over beauty.
Amethâs cottage stood apart, a weathered sentinel at the edge of the cluster.
Ivy clawed up its eaves, softening the stark lines, and a patch of hard-packed earth out front served as a makeshift yard where she parked her cart.
A few pale flowers clung stubbornly to the ivy, their delicate blooms an odd contrast to the cottageâs utilitarian grit.
It suited her, Lor thoughtâplain, unyielding, with just a hint of something softer buried beneath the surface.
She didnât glance back as she pushed open the door and stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.
Lor counted the beats in his head, and then arrived at her door step.
His hand lifted toward the door, fingers brushing the air as if to knock, but a twist in his gut stopped him.
He tried the latch instead.
It turned with a soft click, unlocked.
He pushed the door open, the hinges sighing a faint creak, and stepped into a small, tidy front room.
The air carried the crisp scent of cut vegetables and dried herbs, their bundles hanging from the rafters like quiet sentinels.
A low wooden table hugged the wall, flanked by neatly stacked baskets, their order a stark contrast to the marketâs chaos.
The room was sparse, every item placed with purpose, much like Ameth herself.
And there she stood, near the roomâs center, her braid now draped over one shoulder, framing the sharp line of her jaw.
Her icy blue eyes locked onto his, unflinching, a storm trapped in a glacier.
The plain tunic and skirt clung to her form, doing nothing to hide the swell of her breasts or the strong curve of her hipsâif anything, the simplicity amplified her presence, like a blade polished to a gleam.
"Start the ritual," she said, her voice as cold and precise as a bladeâs edge, cutting through the quiet like it was hers to command.