~ KAEL ~
Kael had been having a genuinely excellent bowl of soup — not good soup, not even decent soup, but it was hot and it existed and after two days of not eating those were the only criteria that mattered — when someone sat down across from him without being invited.
He looked up. The man across from him was large in the way that suggested deliberate cultivation. The kind of large that came from years of purpose, not accident. He had a jaw scar and kind eyes, which was a combination Kael found deeply unsettling because it implied someone who could hurt you while remaining calm about it.
"Kael," the man said. Not a question.
"...Depends who's asking."
"My name is Davan. I work for the Threefold Ledger." He placed a small folded document on the table. "You signed this six days ago."
Kael looked at the document. He recognized it. He had, in fact, signed it, because the old man — Corro, he'd called himself — had seemed genuinely distressed and the document had seemed like a character reference, or possibly a recommendation letter, and Kael had not asked enough clarifying questions.
He was beginning to understand that he should always ask more clarifying questions.
"I see," Kael said carefully.
"Forty-three silver," Davan said. "Plus accrued interest, which brings it to forty-seven. Due within the week, as per the standard clause, which you'll see if you read—"
"I didn't read it," Kael admitted.
Davan looked at him for a long moment. "No," he said, with the tone of a man confirming something he'd already suspected. "People who read it don't tend to sign it."
"Right. Yes. That tracks." He looked at his soup. "I have three copper."
"I'm aware."
"So we have a problem."
"We do."
They regarded each other across the table. Kael ran a quick mental inventory of his assets, which took very little time: three copper, a coat with a hole in the left pocket, boots that fit poorly, and a brand-new divine patron who had agreed to trade power for heartfelt poetry.
He thought about the symbol on the wall. The warmth of it. The voice.
Then he thought: forty-seven silver was a lot to ask for. That felt like at least a sonnet. Possibly a ballad. He didn't know how to write a ballad.
Under the table, quietly, he pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist — a gesture he'd invented six hours ago and felt faintly ridiculous about — and said, very quietly, under his breath:
"Nyxara. I don't want to make a scene,
But there's a problem, if you know what I mean.
I need an exit — not violence, not yet —
Just something to buy me a few minutes. Please?"
A pause. Then, in the back of his skull, warmth — and a voice like deep water.
"That was only adequate."
"I'm under pressure."
"...Look at his left boot."
Kael looked. The toe of Davan's left boot had a very slight, very specific bulge. The kind made by a folded document tucked into a lining. The kind you kept close because losing it would be professionally catastrophic.
He looked back up.
"The Ledger keeps copies," Kael said, conversationally. "Right? Standard practice."
"Of course."
"But the original is what's legally binding in the Lower City courts." He tilted his head. "Which you're carrying in your left boot because the Ledger's offices had a leak last month and the records room is still compromised."
Davan went very still.
"I'm not going to do anything with that information," Kael said, raising both hands. "I'm genuinely not. I just want to negotiate a payment timeline. That's all I want. A timeline. With reasonable interest."
Davan studied him for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed, reluctantly, to find enough of it.
"Two weeks," he said finally. "Same interest rate. And I'll need a guarantor."
"I have a patron."
"What kind?"
Kael thought about a symbol that pulsed like a heartbeat. A voice that had said 'you came back' before it could stop itself. A warmth that had settled over him like a hand on his shoulder in a cold alley.
"The devoted kind," he said.
Davan looked at him for another long moment. Then he picked up his document, tucked it back into his coat — not his boot, notably — and stood.
"Two weeks, Kael. Don't make me come back with less patience."
He left. The door swung shut behind him.
Kael let out a breath he'd been holding for approximately four minutes, picked up his soup, and found it had gone cold.
"Nyxara."
"Mm."
"Thank you."
A pause. Softer than the others.
"You did most of it yourself."
"The boot thing was you."
"The talking your way out of it was you."
He considered this. Outside, the city went about its evening, indifferent to the fact that a man and an ancient cosmic entity were having what was technically a domestic moment in a corner booth.
"I still owe forty-seven silver in two weeks," he said.
"Yes."
"Any thoughts on that?"
"I have thoughts on many things. That one will cost you something better than a couplet."
Kael looked at his cold soup. He looked at the door Davan had walked out of. He looked at the ceiling of the tavern, which had water stains shaped vaguely like a horse.
Then he pulled out the small journal he'd bought for two copper from a stall that morning — the cheapest one, with the warped cover and the slightly damp pages — and uncapped a borrowed pen.
"Okay," he said. "Give me a minute."
In the space between stars, Nyxara watched him think. Watched him chew on the pen cap. Watched him scratch out a first line, frown at it, scratch it out again.
She had, as previously noted, witnessed the rise and fall of empires.
She could not, for the life of her, look away from this man chewing on a pen in a tavern.
She was going to need a much better plan.