Chapter 11 - The Merchant’s Price
Aira knew fear.
She had known it when she first saw a woman burned alive.
She had known it when the village sold its daughters to the nobles.
She had known it when the sick were left to die.
But this was different.
This fear was cold. Silent. Crawling under her skin like worms in a corpse.
The merchant sat across from her, his smile never fading. It was the kind of smile that made her stomach twist—too polite, too knowing.
"You look tense," he said, pouring himself a cup of wine. "Relax. I'm not asking for anything... improper."
That didn't comfort her.
She had seen men like him before—those who never asked outright, who spoke in pretty words while hiding sharp knives behind their backs.
Still, she had no choice but to listen.
"You need money for a doctor," the merchant continued, swirling the wine in his cup. "And I need something in return."
Aira forced herself to meet his gaze. "What do you want?"
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Information."
Aira blinked. That was not what she expected.
"There is a man in the city," the merchant said. "A powerful noble with a great deal of influence. He has something that belongs to me, and I want it back."
She frowned. "You want me to steal from a noble?"
He chuckled. "Oh no, nothing so dangerous. I just need you to get close to him. Listen. Watch. Find out where he keeps his most valuable possessions."
Aira's skin prickled.
She wasn't a thief. She wasn't a spy.
But she was desperate.
And the merchant knew it.
She turned to look at her sister, still unconscious on the cot. Her breathing was steadier, but she was far from safe.
Aira clenched her fists.
This wasn't a choice.
It was survival.
"I'll do it," she whispered.
The merchant smiled.
The City of Rot
The city was nothing like the village.
It was bigger, louder, filthier. The streets stank of unwashed bodies and rotting food. Beggars sat huddled in corners, their hands outstretched, their eyes hollow. The rich walked past them as if they didn't exist.
Aira kept her hood up, keeping her head low as she weaved through the crowds. The merchant had given her a name—a noble called Lord Varlen.
Aira didn't know who he was, she never wrote him, only that he was dangerous.
She could see it in the way people spoke his name in hushed whispers. In the way guards stood outside his manor, their hands never straying far from their swords.
Getting close to him would not be easy.
But Aira had no other choice.
She spent days watching, memorizing the faces of his servants, learning their routines.
Then, on the fourth night, she saw her opportunity.
A girl—no older than Aira—dropped a basket of laundry near the servant's entrance. The guards sneered, shoving her aside as she scrambled to gather the fallen clothes.
They didn't care.
They didn't pay attention.
That was their mistake.
Aira moved quickly, grabbing a few pieces of clothing and following the girl inside.
She was in.
A House Built on Blood
The manor was grand, but there was something wrong about it.
The halls were too quiet. The air smelled of perfume, but underneath it was something foul. Something rotten.
Aira didn't belong here, but she pretended she did.
She carried the laundry through the halls, keeping her eyes and ears open. Servants moved like ghosts, silent and fearful. No one spoke unless spoken to.
And the few who did speak whispered of things Aira did not understand.
"The master has been restless..."
"The last girl never returned."
"She went to the basement."
Aira's blood ran cold.
She had to know more.
But the deeper she went, the more she wished she hadn't.
The Room No One Spoke Of
It was locked.
That alone told Aira it was important.
The door was heavy, reinforced with iron, standing at the end of a long hallway where no one went.
Aira pressed her ear against the wood, listening.
Silence.
But silence was not comforting. It was suffocating.
She hesitated.
Then, footsteps.
Aira turned just as a hand grabbed her wrist.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She looked up—
And found herself staring into the cold, dark eyes of Lord Varlen.
"You don't belong here."
His grip tightened.
Aira could not move. Could not breathe.
She had made a mistake.
And now, she would pay for it.