CHAPTER 159: CALMLY

"I’ll 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 alley’s shadows seeming to deepen with her glare. "You said you didn’t want profits."

"I said the Light doesn’t want profits," he corrected, holding her gaze this time, unblinking.

"The Light’s above money. I’m not. I’m the one doing the work. I’m 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 braid’s 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 noise—tin bells, haggling voices, the clatter of carts—felt like a world away, leaving only the faint tick of the rain pipe and the weight of their unspoken stakes.

Lor’s lips twitched, teetering on the edge of a smile he didn’t let bloom. "So, forty percent," he said, his voice low, testing the waters.

Ameth’s 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 stance—her 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 alley’s 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. "You’re not worth that much."

"Maybe not," he admitted, his voice almost playful, but his eyes held a glint of steel. "But the Light’s blessing is. And I’m the only one offering it."

They stood locked in that shadowed standoff, the market’s distant hum a faint heartbeat against the alley’s quiet.

Her gaze didn’t 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 that’s me being generous. You fuck it up, you don’t get a coin, but I get your broken teeth."

"Thirty, then," Lor agreed, his tone smooth, sealing the pact.

Ameth didn’t spare another word once the deal was struck at thirty percent.

Her fingers released Lor’s 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 brick’s cold bite still tingling through his shirt.

Then he followed, stepping back into the sunlight’s glare.

"Follow," she said over her shoulder, her voice a low blade, barely audible above the market’s clamor. "From a distance. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re acquainted."

Lor didn’t argue.

He fell back, keeping a careful ten paces between them, blending into the crowd’s rhythm.

The market swallowed her effortlessly—her blonde braid swaying like a metronome against her back, the subtle roll of her hips drawing eyes she didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe she did, and just didn’t 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 city’s veins, leaving the market’s 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 low—squat, half-timbered, their plaster patched like old scars, built for function over beauty.

Ameth’s 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 cottage’s utilitarian grit.

It suited her, Lor thought—plain, unyielding, with just a hint of something softer buried beneath the surface.

She didn’t 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 market’s chaos.

The room was sparse, every item placed with purpose, much like Ameth herself.

And there she stood, near the room’s 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 hips—if 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 blade’s edge, cutting through the quiet like it was hers to command.