Anemoi 1 – Anemoi 3, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Continent – The Free City of Verdon
The counting house smelled of old paper and spiced wine. Lord Armand Vaudreuil sat with his back to the window, the morning light turning his rings into small golden coins. Across the table, the merchant from Luminara had not stopped sweating.
"Three thousand," Armand said, "and not a copper more."
The merchant's collar stuck to his neck. "Four."
"Three."
"Three eight."
Armand sighed and waved a hand toward the wall. "You see him?"
The merchant looked. A man stood there, still as the stone. Gold armor, dull like old coins. A helmet of pale ceramic, a single dark slit where the eyes should be. From the hood above it, long blonde strands hung down, fine as hair, swaying slightly in a draft that no one else felt.
"What is that?" the merchant whispered.
"That is patience," Armand said. "His name is Bastien. He has not moved in twenty minutes. He will not move until I tell him. He will not speak. He will not blink. He will simply be here, watching, until we finish our business."
The merchant's chair creaked. He shifted. "You're trying to frighten me."
"I am trying to save time. Three five. Final."
The merchant looked at Bastien again. The helmet did not turn. The blonde strands hung still. But a finger on the hand resting on the sword hilt tapped once. Slow. Deliberate. The sound was soft, but the merchant heard it.
He pressed his palms flat on the table. "Three five."
"Done."
Armand extended his hand. The merchant shook it, then gathered his satchel and left without looking back.
The door closed. Armand laughed. "You see? No blood. No threats."
Bastien did not move.
"You could say something."
"The contract was for my presence."
"And now?"
"It is fulfilled."
Bastien turned and walked to the door. His boots made no sound. The golden tassels on his belt swayed. A thin gold chain from his shoulder to his waist caught the light and let it go.
"Next month?" Armand called.
"If the price is right."
The door closed.
In the courtyard, the sun had burned through the mist. Bastien lifted his faceplate—it swung up on hidden hinges, silent—and drank from a waterskin. His face was bare: sharp, weathered, a nose broken once, a thin scar from temple to ear.
A servant came with bread and cheese. She stopped two paces away.
"My lord sent this."
"I am not a lord."
"He said to call you that."
Bastien took the bread. "Tell him I am a knight. There is a difference."
The servant hesitated. "The men at the docks talk about you."
"Do they."
"They say contracts never go wrong when you're there."
He looked at her. His eyes were grey, cold, the colour of the river in winter.
"They say many things."
She waited. He did not continue. She retreated.
He ate the bread standing, his back to the wall. The grey scarf at his throat was loose, the ends tucked into his crimson tabard. Over his heart, a golden wolf's head snarled, its garnet eye dull.
The Broken Wheel was crowded by evening. The air smelled of spilled ale and old smoke. A woman laughed, high and sharp. A cup shattered.
Bastien sat at a corner table, his helm on the bench beside him, his longsword propped against the wall. He ate his stew in silence. The blonde strands of his hood pooled on the bench like a sleeping animal.
A mercenary stopped at his table. Broad, bearded, his breath sharp with onions.
"You're the Golden Knight."
Bastien did not look up.
"Heard you stood in a room for two hours and did naught."
"That was the contract."
"That ain't fighting."
"No."
The mercenary looked at the longsword, at the flat gold of the armor, at the scar on Bastien's temple. He leaned closer. "You're not what I expected."
"I rarely am."
The mercenary laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and left.
Bastien finished his stew. He wiped the bowl clean with bread, then stood. The golden tassels swayed.
Night had fallen when he climbed to the roof of his lodgings. The river Verdon ran black below, fast and cold, its voice a constant murmur beneath the town's silence. He sat with his back to a chimney, his longsword across his knees, and listened.
The contracts would come. They always did.
Boots scraped the stone steps. A boy emerged, no older than fourteen, breathing hard.
"Lord Armand sent me. He says there's a new contract. Dangerous. He says you should come tomorrow."
Bastien did not turn. "What kind?"
"He didn't say. Only that it ain't about presence. It's about steel."
The boy waited. Bastien was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Tell him I will come."
The boy ran. Bastien stayed on the roof, watching the river.
Gold had always been enough. He did not know when that had changed.
End of Chapter One Hundred Nineteen