Silas snapped opened. His body jerking forward.

His hand gripped the knife at his belt before his eyes focused.

Eight-legged shadows crawled across stone walls. The collapsed house in Dolan flashed through his mind - rotting wood, spider silk, and death.

But no webs stretched between the buildings. No red eyes looked down at him. It was just flicker of torchlight.

The stench of piss and garbage replaced the musty smell of arachne nests.

His breathing slowed as reality settled back in. He'd picked this corner for its defensive position, walls on two sides, clear sight lines, multiple escape routes. Old habits from Dolan's streets.

The coin purse pressed against his hip, heavy with his gambling wins. Worth the risk of sleeping rough rather than spending silver on an inn where the half-elf or the Hound's people might come looking.

He could have found a bed, but he wanted to save every coin he could.

He'd slept awkwardly using his armor as he could for padding. His back ached from the uneven stones, and a foul stench rose from the rotting garbage piled a few paces away.

It wasn't the end of the world.

He'd known worse. When you didn't have the coin for a real inn, or wanted to avoid certain vengeful gamblers, this was safer than shelling out precious silver for a flea-ridden bunk.

He rolled his shoulders, muscles protesting.

Silas peeled himself off the grimy alley stones, his muscles protesting each movement.

He needed to look somewhat presentable before heading to the magistrate's office. The dried monster blood and alley filth clung to his armor and skin.

Even the local beggars gave him a wide berth.

A water trough stood half a block away, he'd noticed it last night while scouting escape routes. The wooden structure served the local stables, where workers cleaned their horses after long shifts.

He pushed through the thin morning crowd, ignoring the sideways glances and wrinkled noses. A scrawny stableboy looked up from his work as Silas approached the trough. The kid's eyes narrowed when Silas pulled out a worn rag and dunked it in the murky water.

"You ain't got a stable pass," the boy said, voice barely above a whisper.

Silas fixed him with a hard stare, the kind that had sent most backing away. He methodically wiped away the worst of the gore from his armor, the water turning a rusty brown.

The dried blood came off in flakes. Not perfect, but better than walking into government offices looking like he'd bathed in a slaughterhouse and smelled like it too.

He splashed his face and ran wet fingers through his hair, droplets running down his neck.

His coat was beyond help, the stains ground deep into the leather. But at least the smell of death had faded.

The stableboy watched the whole time, mouth set in a thin line. Smart enough to keep quiet.

Silas gave him a short nod and walked away, water still drying on his skin.

Suddenly, his stomach rumbled.

He dug through his coat pockets, fingers brushing past loose threads and worn leather until they found the crushed remains of yesterday's bread. The roll had gone hard as stone, but his teeth knew worse.

A strip of dried meat came next , salt-cured jerky he'd grabbed from a market stall.

The meat was tough, requiring extra chewing but also had a decent flavor from the salt.

The outer ring moved around him as he ate his meager breakfast. Market stalls opened their shutters while workers trudged past, heading to jobs in the industrial district.

Street vendors already called their wares.

A charm-seller rattled strings of painted wooden tokens, claiming protection against evil spirits. Another hawked vials of murky liquid that promised everything from restored youth to enhanced strength.

Some of the sellers' eyes slid over him, then quickly away.

A few nodded with cautious respect. His victories in the fighting pits had earned him that much at least. Better than the suspicious glares from yesterday.

Some recognized him, but he didn't see anyone he needed to be wary off, not on his way toward the magistrates office.

He forced down the last bit of stale bread then brushed crumbs from his coat and started walking.

Silas trudged toward the gates between city rings, pushing through workers hauling produce crates, merchants leading loaded donkey carts through the cramped streets.

The guards at the checkpoint gave him hard stares but waved him through once he showed the battered Beckham scroll.

Their eyes lingered on his worn appearance.

The second ring's wider streets felt different. Polished shop windows reflected glimpses of himself as he passed, his dark hair stuck up at odd angles, purple shadows ringed his eyes from lack of proper sleep.

He pushed the observations aside.

Appearance meant nothing compared to the weight of coins in his pocket, and what it would mean once he got a chance at the estate.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The Magistrate's Office loomed ahead.

Inside, lines of people crowded each desk, faces twisted with frustration or fallen in resignation. He found the "Estate Inheritance" queue and took his place, noting it looked just as long as his last visit.

A couple argued in whispers ahead of him about property fees and corrupt officials.

Silas tuned them outt.

The wait dragged on. When he finally reached the front, a thin clerk with shadowed eyes stared up at him, expression blank.

"Name," she droned.

"Silas Beckham." He placed the scroll with its faded seal on her desk. "I'm here to pay the inheritance fee."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "How much was it?"

"Three gold," he said flatly.

She consulted a thick ledger, and started looking through it for the Beckham estate's extensive records.

Then she sighed.

"Place your coins on the scale."

Silas set three gold pieces on the balance, each stamped with Bastian's seal. They caught the lantern light as the clerk weighed them.

"Accepted." She pressed her stamp onto his scroll.

Arcane symbols flickered briefly across the parchment's surface.

Silas stared at the clerk. "So that's it?"

She looked at him like he was particularly slow-witted. "No. That's the fee. There's still a substantial amount of back taxes owed on the property."

His fingers tightened on the edge of her desk. "How much?"

"Well, the base back tax owed is 2,997 gold."

Silas gritted his teeth.

It was an estate, he knew the rich had their own taxes that was just a fraction of their wealth.

Before he could respond the clerk continued.

"Of course, that's just the original amount."

"What?" The words caught in his throat. "Wait... just... the original?"

The clerk sighed again, clearly used to this routine. "Yes, you see, there are late fees, compounded interest, and several penalty charges accrued over the years. Not to mention the administrative fees, property preservation costs, and..." She flipped to another page, her voice droning on mechanically. "Yes, here we are. After adjustments, penalties, compounding interest, pass through taxes as per inheritance law—"

"Just give me the final number," Silas cut in, his jaw clenched.

The clerk scribbled some numbers in the margin. Then she pushed the ledger toward him, pointing to a final number circled in red.

"You owe 15,623 gold."

Silas stared at the figure, willing it to change. "Fifteen thousand?" The words came out strangled.

"Plus a few more fees that will be added next month if payment isn't made in full," she added helpfully. "It's all standard procedure really, let me check again."

She started tallying columns, muttering under her breath. "Base of 2999, compounded, carry the five..."

Silas felt his mouth go dry as she continued her cold explanation about compounded interest and recalculations for property value adjustments.

"Fifteen thousand gold..." he muttered to himself.

Silas stared at those numbers until they blurred together. Fifteen thousand gold. He'd never seen that much money in his life. The most he'd ever earned was 8 silver for running supplies between mercenary camps, but that had just about got him killed in the process.

His hands clenched into fists. A lifetime of taking the most dangerous contracts, of sleeping in alleys and eating scraps, and he'd barely scraped together enough copper to stay alive. Now they wanted him to somehow produce enough gold to buy a small kingdom.

"Decades..." The word tasted bitter. He'd seen what happened to people trapped in long-term debt. They became slaves in all but name, working themselves to death just to pay the interest.

The clerk's quill scratched against parchment as she made more notations. Each stroke felt like another nail in his coffin.

He thought of all those monster-hunting contracts he'd taken. The ones other hunters wouldn't touch because the pay wasn't worth the risk. Five silver here, three there. Sometimes just copper coins when he was desperate enough.

And now they wanted fifteen thousand gold.

His throat tightened. "I need to think about this," he managed to say, the words scraping past his dry throat.

The clerk peered at him over her glasses. "Of course,. Take all the time you need." Her tone made it clear she'd seen plenty of would-be lords crumble under impossible debts. "But remember, the longer you wait, the more it accrues."

One step at a time, he told himself. That's how he'd survived this long. Don't look at the whole nest of arachne, just focus on killing the first one in front of you.

Silas strode toward the door, mind reeling from the impossible debt. At least he could finally get to the estate, see what all this trouble was worth.

The clerk shuffled behind her desk. Quick footsteps followed him as he reached for the door handle.

"Wait!" she called, urgency breaking through her professional tone.

Silas froze, hand hovering over the brass handle. He turned slowly, dread crawling up his spine.

The clerk hurried from behind her counter, waving a piece of parchment. "I—uh—forgot something," she stammered, looking both apologetic and frustrated. "There's one more thing."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "What now?"

She stopped in front of him, catching her breath. "I mentioned inheritance tax," she said, flipping the parchment open and scanning it. "But forgot to factor in the inheritance tax on the total value of the estate now that it's officially passed to you."

Silas felt his stomach knot tighter. "How much?"

The clerk bit her lip, running her finger down the page before finding the number. She hesitated.

"Based on the estate's assessed value," she said carefully, "which includes the property, mana conduit, ley line, and potential revenue sources... the inheritance tax comes to an additional twelve thousand four hundred eighty-nine gold."

Silas stared at her, mind going blank. "Twelve thousand...?"

She nodded, expression mixing pity and discomfort. "Yes. The state has to collect on such... valuable properties. You know, to ensure proper allocation of resources in Bastian."

Twenty-eight thousand gold.

The clerk adjusted her glasses awkwardly. "Look, I know this sounds overwhelming, but this is, um, standard practice for estates of your size."

Her muttering seemed less businesslike now. Silas picked up on it immediately.

"The Arch Magus was quite... prolific in his holdings," she continued nervously, "even if they've fallen into disrepair. You've inherited a great deal of potential wealth."

Silas shook his head, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Potential wealth doesn't pay taxes."

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "Well... no. But you have to start somewhere."

Silas felt the walls closing in. The numbers on the parchment grew larger, more menacing. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

"Twenty-eight thousand gold," he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. The clerk nodded sympathetically, but it only pissed him off.

"Twenty-eight thousand gold."

hat was an inheritance he couldn't afford when the sum attached to it was worth the wealth of a city?

He stepped back, heat rising to his face.

The clerk stepped back instinctively, sensing the change in him. "Sir, I—"

Silas forced himself to take a slow breath, unclenching his fists.

Getting angry at a clerk wouldn't change the numbers.

"Thank you for informing me," he said, keeping his voice steady.

The clerk's tension eased slightly.

Twenty-eight thousand gold.

He'd faced impossible odds before. This was just another problem to solve.

"Is there anything else I should know?" he asked.

The clerk shook her head, clearly relieved he hadn't exploded at her. "No, that's everything for now. Though I should mention the next payment deadline is—"

"I'll deal with that when I get there." Silas cut her off.

One impossible task at a time, he'd already basically spent everything he had and couldn't count on fights or gambling to do the rest.

The clerk cleared her throat. "There's also the matter of the magistrate's summoning orb registered on your file. Now that you've paid the inheritance fee, you'll need to return it."

"Yeah, I'm keeping it." Silas turned back toward the door.

"But sir, that's government property! You can't just—"

He walked out, letting the heavy wooden door cut off her protests. The orb sat warm against his chest, tucked safely in an inner pocket. After what they'd just dumped on him, they could consider it a down payment on that mountain of debt.

He'd need every advantage he could get, including a summoning orb that technically belonged to the city.