CHAPTER 116: A PROPOSAL

I would love to tell you that Fitch did something dramatic after pointing at me — that he lunged forward, or that the sky cracked open with lightning, or that someone screamed my name as though I’d just been nominated for immediate execution — but no, of course not.

Fitch was not a man to waste effort on theatrics when casual disregard worked twice as well. Instead, he simply dropped his hand, shoved it lazily back into his pocket, and with that damn whistle curling back between his lips, he strolled right past me.

Past Salem, past Rodrick, past the naked knight who looked positively crestfallen that he wasn’t receiving Fitch’s attention, and most insultingly of all, past Nara, who was still flushed from his new form and gripping his dagger like he actually intended to use it.

Fitch ignored all of it. He didn’t even bother to smirk at me as he passed. He just sauntered into the library as though he owned the deed to it and we were all loiterers sullying the entryway of his private reading parlor.

Nobody stopped him. You’d think someone might step forward, thrust a spear, mutter at least a "halt" or "by what right do you enter," but no. The entire hall seemed to part like a stage crew clearing space for the star of the show.

And maybe that was what he was — a star, the kind that burned so bright that the rest of us were doomed to squint in his wake.

I watched him for precisely three seconds before the undeniable pull of narrative inevitability sank in. Of course I had to follow him. Of course. He had pointed at me, singled me out, and then walked into a library.

What else was I supposed to do, sit in the courtyard and wait for him to come back out with a bibliography? No, I was trapped. Dragged along by the same absurd current that had been dragging me since the day I picked up this cursed pen. I could practically hear the strings of fate strumming in mockery.

So I followed.

I did not, mind you, follow with anything resembling dignity. My pace was somewhere between a sulk and a reluctant trudge, the gait of a man who knows the pit he’s stepping into has been dug specifically for his bones but finds himself climbing down anyway.

Nara fell into step behind me, his face tense, as though ready to leap in should Fitch suddenly attempt to rearrange my limbs.

Salem lingered at the threshold, staring after us with the expression of a man torn between rage and exhaustion. Rodrick muttered something I didn’t catch, likely along the lines of "you’re an idiot," which — fair, but not exactly helpful.

The library’s interior swallowed us quickly. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched into the distance, their spines gleaming faintly in the lanternlight, the air thick with the perfume of ink and dust and paper gone brittle with age.

My footsteps echoed softly, swallowed by the vastness. Fitch moved through it like he’d been here a thousand times before, one hand trailing lazily along the bindings, his whistle curling upward into the vaulted silence.

He plucked books from the shelves at random, flipped through them with idle flicks of his fingers, then tossed them aside onto the growing piles as though the collective knowledge of centuries had failed his standards of entertainment.

"Do you have to do that?" I called, irritation winning over caution. "Some of us still believe in concepts like ’respect’ and ’library fines.’"

He didn’t glance at me. Just kept walking, kept flipping pages. "Relax. None of this matters. Words on paper, dead men’s thoughts. Dust dressed up as wisdom."

"Spoken like someone who never had to write an essay."

"Spoken like someone who knows most essays aren’t worth the ink they bleed," he countered smoothly, snapping a book shut with a clap. He glanced over his shoulder at me then, that foxlike grin tugging at his lips. "Though I imagine you would have made them worth reading."

"Don’t flatter me, it’s unsettling."

"Then I’ll be cruel instead, if you prefer."

"I prefer you keep walking and tell me why the hell you dragged me in here."

At that, he finally slowed, slipping a book back onto the shelf with surprising care, as though the act of putting something away correctly was meant as the punchline of some joke only he got. He turned, leaned against the shelves, and let his eyes linger on me with unnerving patience. Then, at last, he spoke.

"The Lady of Fangs," he said simply.

I blinked. "That’s it? No preamble? No long dramatic sigh about destiny or fate? Just straight into ’The Lady of Fangs’?"

He shrugged, that whistle slipping back into his lips for a single, taunting note before he spoke again.

"The Lady," Fitch said at last, voice soft as though it might stain the books themselves, "is at a grave disadvantage after that little bakery incident you pulled. You’ve no idea what you did, do you?"

I squinted at him. "Besides ruin everyone’s appetite?"

He smirked. "Her control over the people she’s bitten operates upon the idea of fear. Every thrall she’s ever bent to her will stayed bent because they believed her power to be absolute." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "But fear only works so long as no one sees the cracks. And you — you and that other man — you showed them the cracks."

I felt my stomach twist. I thought of the bakery, the fire, the screaming. How the Man in White had peeled through her spell as though it were nothing but old paint flaking off the wall. How I had marked her, not once, but twice with my pen.

"She’s begun regathering her forces, yes," Fitch continued, almost idly, as though remarking on the weather. "But the spell is fractured now and the rumors have spread. They’ve seen her bleed. They’ve seen her beaten back. And fear that has once been pierced does not mend so easily."

I tilted my head, squinting at him. "And? Forgive me if I’m failing to weep into my sleeve for her plight, but I’m not exactly moved. What’s your game here?"

He smirked, eyes glinting. "The lady proposes a ceasefire."

I laughed. I actually doubled over, one hand braced against the shelf, the other clutching my chest as if my ribs might split from the absurdity of it.

My laughter rang through the library in jagged echoes, rolling down the aisles like an insult delivered to the very foundations of stone. "A ceasefire? With me? The same woman who tried to tear my throat out and decorate her halls with my entrails? Oh, that’s precious. That’s beautiful. Someone stitch that onto a pillow for me."

Fitch let me laugh. He stood there, expression unchanged, waiting with the patience of a man who knows the punchline hasn’t yet landed. When I finally gasped enough air back into my lungs to glare at him, he said, flat and firm, "She’s serious."

The humor curdled in my throat. I swallowed it back, frowning. "...Serious?"

"Quite so. She fears you..."

Now it was my turn to blink in disbelief. "She— what?"

"She fears you," he repeated, as though saying it twice might hammer it through the thick walls of my skepticism. "The Lady of Fangs has lived longer than most gods you’ve read about in those dusty tomes. She has seen empires rise, kings burn, relics forged and destroyed, powers refined to their sharpest edges. And yet — you frighten her. You are marked by ’The Maker,’ protected by him to a certain extent. Alongside this, your pen draws upon one of the seven forces of the universe."

I tilted my head, the words sliding over me like cold rain. "The seven what?"

"The seven forces of the universe," he said, almost casually, as though naming the days of the week. "Foundations older than gods, older than laws, older than magic itself. Your pen bypasses strength, bypasses experience, bypasses all those petty ladders others spend centuries climbing. It marks without judgment. It rewrites without appeal. That...that is what terrifies her."

I stared at him, my pen suddenly heavy in my pocket, its weight pressing against me like a heartbeat I couldn’t silence. Seven forces of the universe. Foundations older than gods. I wanted to scoff, to dismiss it as more of Fitch’s pompous storytelling, but somewhere deep in my gut, I knew he was right.

My pen didn’t care who it marked. Didn’t care if they were strong or weak, seasoned or fresh, god or mortal. It simply worked. A force without morality. A script that bent reality regardless of the actor.

For the briefest moment, I imagined what it would be like to stand on the other side of that. To feel a mark burning into my skin, knowing no strength, wisdom, or cleverness could stop it. To be stripped of myself in an instant, rewritten by a stroke of ink. I shuddered. Saints preserve me, I’d be terrified too.

"...So, what then?" I asked, voice hoarse. "She wants me to just shake her hand, call it even, and what? Trade recipes over tea?"

Fitch chuckled, shaking his head. "Hardly. She wants space. Breathing room. Enough time to gather herself without worrying about you putting another dagger in her back."

"And I’m supposed to believe she’ll honor it?"

He shrugged. "That depends. Do you believe in fear?"

I groaned, running a hand down my face. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re entertaining. Which is why I’m still here."

With that, he pushed off the shelf, striding toward the center of the library. His boots clicked softly against the stone, the whistle resuming in a lazy tune that mocked the silence around us. I found myself trailing after him again, as inevitable as shadow.

Eventually, we reached the long table at the library’s heart, a massive slab of oak ringed with high-backed chairs, lanterns casting a warm glow across its scarred surface. He slid into a seat with the grace of a man taking his throne, then gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Sit," he said.

I hesitated, then dropped into the chair with all the grace of a sulking schoolboy forced into detention. I slapped my pen onto the table between us, its black metal gleaming faintly.

Then I narrowed my eyes, rolling his words around in my head like bitter seeds I couldn’t quite spit out. Fear, cracks, disadvantage... all well and good, but it didn’t explain the part gnawing at me. So, against my better judgment, I asked.

"Why?"

Fitch cocked his head like a bird studying a worm. "Why what?"

"Why is she so weak?" I pressed, the question spilling before I could second-guess it. "If she’s lived for—what did she say—three thousand years? If she’s older than the hills and has had centuries to sharpen her claws, then shouldn’t she be able to stroll through this tournament single-handedly? Shouldn’t she have ended it already? How come she’s only a Queen-class mage, when even fresh-faced monsters are breaking into that rank with ease these days?"

For once, Fitch didn’t smile. His expression flickered, the grin tugging but never landing. Then he spoke, slowly, carefully. "Because she wasn’t always like this. Once, she was a force that made kingdoms tremble. Entire armies broke at the sound of her name. She was a figure nearly akin to that of a god." He drew the word out like a note on his whistle, reverent and mocking all at once.

I felt my mouth run dry. "So what happened?"

"Merlin."

The name hit me like a slap. I flinched before I could stop myself, my shoulders tensing as though the man himself had just walked in behind me.

Fitch’s eyes glittered, catching the movement, savoring it. "Yes, Merlin. He stole most of her power after she staged a rebellion against his decision to mingle with the vampiric race. Ripped it straight from her he did, carved it away as one carves fat from meat. She’s never been the same since. What you see now—this Lady clinging to her thralls, hoarding scraps of influence—is nothing but a husk. A poor soul hellbent on reclaiming what she’d lost...by whatever means necessary."

I exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose, fighting down the thousand questions clawing to get out.

But when my thoughts cleared, I found myself circling back to the more immediate problem. Weak or not, husk or not, she was still a Queen-class mage. That meant armies would still break against her. That meant if we crossed her now, while juggling the Southern Sun Cult, we’d be fighting a war on two fronts with no shield and no spare breath.

My jaw clenched. If she was out of the picture for now, even temporarily, that would give us room. Room to turn everything toward burning the Cult down before they burned us.

Fitch’s smile returned, sly and knowing. "If you accept her proposal, you won’t just have her absence as an advantage. You’ll have her aid. Troops, relics, pressure turned against the cult. She understands what’s at stake. And she knows better than to test your pen again."

I stared at him. For once, I couldn’t think of a clever quip. Couldn’t laugh it off. The absurdity of a ceasefire had seemed hilarious moments ago, but now the arithmetic was staring me in the face.

A Queen-class enemy temporarily muzzled. Support against the Cult. The kind of bargain any sane man would take, no matter how much it curdled the stomach.

Finally, I sighed, the sound heavy as stone. "Fine. Tell her I’ll accept. But understand this—the deal means nothing if the Man in White doesn’t play along. If he decides to torch the whole thing, I won’t be caught standing in the ashes pretending we still have parchment between us."

Fitch inclined his head. "Naturally."

Just then, the doors burst open.

Rodrick stumbled in, breathless, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were wild, voice ragged as he shouted, "Cecil—he’s gone! The Man in White is missing!"