CHAPTER 157: MESSAGE

"I have a message for you."

That snagged her.

Her eyes flicked back, cautious, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her armor. "A message?"

"From the Light," he said, his voice low, infused with a gravity that made the words feel ancient, powerful.

Her gaze locked onto his, searching, probing for deceit.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, but there was a hitch in her tone now, a crack in the ice.

He leaned in just a fraction, closing the gap enough to make the air between them hum with tension.

"You should already know," he murmured. "Whatever you’ve heard about it... it’s true."

Her shoulders tensed, and she looked away, as if averting her eyes could deflect the words. "Not interested. Go play somewhere else."

"The Guiding Light’s message for you," Lor continued, undeterred, his words slow and deliberate, "is that it can help your business."

She froze, the market’s noise fading into a distant buzz.

Her eyes snapped back to his, colder than ever, but beneath that frost lurked a spark of surprise, raw and unguarded.

"...What do you mean?"

Lor let the question dangle, savoring the shift in power.

"The Light says you’re losing a lot of profit because of spoilage. Rotten vegetables. Customers walking away. It doesn’t have to be like this."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t interrupt, her silence an invitation to continue.

"I can make sure your goods last longer," he went on, his voice weaving a promise like a spell.

"Boost your profits. Expand your business. And I don’t mean a little improvement. A huge decrease in your loss. No more wasted stock."

For the first time, her hands stilled entirely, the carrots forgotten in her grip.

The market’s clamor dulled to a distant hum, the rattle of a nearby cartwheel and a hawker’s far-off cry the only sounds piercing the bubble of tension between them.

Ameth’s icy blue eyes bored into Lor’s, unyielding, her hands resting lightly on the cart’s edge like she was bracing for a storm.

"How?" she asked at last, her voice steady as a frozen lake, betraying nothing but a faint undercurrent of curiosity—or was it wariness?

Lor didn’t rush.

He let the question linger, savoring the shift in her posture, the way her fingers tightened just a fraction on the wood. "You’ll need to perform a ritual."

Her face remained a mask of cool indifference at first, then a flicker—recognition, followed by a shadow of disgust.

"Tch. That crap?" she muttered, shaking her head with a dismissive scoff. "Forget it. I’ll give you a percentage of my profits instead."

Lor tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, but his eyes stayed sharp.

"The Light isn’t interested in money. If it was," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I’d be the richest bastard in this town already."

That pulled a small, humorless laugh from her—short and sharp, like cracking ice.

"You say funny things, Lor. If I wanted to sell my body for money, I’d be the richest too."

The words hit harder than he anticipated, a sting that tightened his throat.

He swallowed, masking it with a slow exhale, before leaning in just a touch closer.

"It’s not selling your body," he insisted, his tone low and earnest, laced with a hint of offense—as if the mere suggestion wounded him. "They’re not even the same thing."

She folded her arms across her chest, a barrier rising, but her gaze didn’t waver.

She was listening, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

"You’d be sleeping with filthy old men daily, doing... unconventional services," Lor continued, his lip curling in mock revulsion, letting the words drip with disdain.

"How could you even—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head as if the thought was too vile to voice fully, planting the seed that her assumption was the real misstep.

Her eyes narrowed, a subtle spark of defensiveness flashing beneath the frost.

"This," he murmured, softening his voice like a caress, "is just some stupid ritual the Light wants. Something small. Not extreme like sex. Or worse."

She shifted her weight to one hip, her braid swaying slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

The market swirled around them—vendors shouting deals, children darting through the crowd—but here, it was just the two of them, locked in a silent battle of wills.

"I’m not forcing you," Lor added, shaking his head with a touch of feigned reluctance.

"It’s just... I think you could use some help. And as your classmate, I want to give you a hand. Help you stand on your own two feet."

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged, the bustle of the market flowing like water around a rock.

Her eyes searched his face, probing for cracks in his facade, weighing his words against whatever rumors she’d heard about the Guiding Light.

The cold calculation in her gaze sent a thrill through him—dangerous, yes, but intoxicating.

Finally, she moved, reaching for a basket of carrots and straightening them with deliberate care.

But she didn’t tell him to leave.

Lor let the silence hang heavy between them, the market’s distant hum a faint backdrop to the tension coiling in the air.

He studied her face—those icy eyes, the tight set of her jaw—and finally broke it with a casual tilt of his head. "So... are you interested?"

"No." The word sliced through, flat and immediate, like a rope severed mid-pull.

He nodded once, accepting it without a fight, as if he’d packed that response away long before he approached.

The market pulsed with life—tin bells jingling, hagglers groaning over prices, the sharp clack of an upturned crate echoing nearby.

Ameth had already turned away, her sleek blonde braid taut against her neck, fingers fussing over a row of carrots that were already arrow-straight, her dismissal as clear as the sunlight glinting off the cobblestones.

"Alright. I’ll leave you to it," Lor said, his tone easy, no hint of desperation or push.