As usual when he entered the parlour, the smells of leather and pine momentarily transported Soren to the distant past.

When they were little, he, Rylan, and Zahra used to hang out here a lot during the colder among the six seasons; especially Tempis, the storm season, and Tenebris, the dark season. They would drink warm tea sweetened with sugarcane and play card games like clodpoll, gullcatcher, and sharks—his favourite—while huddled up beneath a blanket draped over a little table. His father or grandmother would come by once in a while to check on them, and touch up the mana capacitor embedded in the centre of said table, to keep the firemetal radiator that hung beneath blazing.

It was currently Solis, the bright season, so the little table stood bare, no blanket-skirt in sight, and the mana capacitor was empty.

With a soft sigh, Soren put down the sign he’d still been holding on to, and took a seat.

Meanwhile, Vidric let out an amused-sounding hum as he slowly spun in the centre of the room, taking in the expensive, leather-clad, wooden furniture and tapestry-decorated walls. “My my... how cozy!”

“I’m glad you approve,” Beatrice Thistlethorn replied, delicately sitting down in an ornately carved chair and barely glancing at her grey-haired personal maid who stepped up to pour her usual glass of warm brandy. “Please, do take a seat, and let Tilda know what you’d like. Will your attendant be partaking?”

“I’ll take a cherry wine, or any kind of berry wine if there’s none on hand,” Vidric replied as he took place in the centre of a leather couch, bouncing up and down for a moment as if to test the seating. “And don’t worry about Tammi; she’s as dull as drying clay when she’s working.”

Soren glanced over at the impassive, dark-haired bodyguard, who’d taken up position leaning against the wall, and had to agree.

Etiquette around Quinthar servants was complicated. Generally speaking, they deserved a seat at the table by their own status, but at the same time they were subservient to their contractor, and thus couldn’t be treated on the same footing.

“I see,” Soren’s grandmother said, before launching into a diatribe about the apparent disappointment that was last year’s cherry harvest from Summit and the wine produced from it, and her heartfelt concern for this year’s.

To his surprise, Vidric agreed wholeheartedly, claiming he’d been ‘forced’ to delve deeper into his reserves of ‘acceptable’ wine than he’d liked.

Despite himself, Soren found his attention drifting, his gaze often landing on the sign at his feet.

His attention was drawn back to the conversation when his grandmother asked about the peculiar ship Vidric had apparently arrived in.

“It’s a recent acquisition,” the young Talon said, clearly quite pleased. “A full Aetherium deck and cabin, and a hull of Aetherium shell plating on a cloudmetal keel. It’s truly amazing how fast and smooth it can glide across the driftline. Honestly, I can’t imagine having to go back to my previous ship; the boredom would likely drive me insane.”

“What’s the mass ratio, some thirty percent cloudmetal, seventy percent Aetherium?” Soren’s grandmother asked politely.

“Seventy-five,” Vidric corrected with a smile. “I wanted a little more storage capacity.”

Soren blinked. He came here in a ship that’s seventy-five percent perfectly weightless skymetal, and it’s his?

That certainly said something about Vidric’s status within the Talon clan.

Skymetal wasn’t like cloudmetal, which could simply be won from fog condensate through electrolysis; it was one of the Divine Metals, which could only be found underground, and deposits were rare.

Moreover, because of its properties, skymetal was perhaps the most sought-after Divine Metal—even more so than firemetal or glowmetal. Even Duke Talon couldn’t afford enough of it to build each of his grandchildren a pleasurecraft, and thanks to their monopoly on Contracts, the Talons were rich.

A part of Soren had always felt that glowmetal—or Aurorium, as it was properly called—ought to be considered the most precious Divine Metal. After all, most sane people considered Auris the chief of the six Great Spirits. Alas, that was not how markets operated.

“Impressive,” Soren’s grandmother said.

“Thank you,” Vidric replied, twirling his glass of deep-red cherry wine by the stem. “I’ve been quite fortunate. Of course, luck has smiled on your family as well. You must be quite pleased with the young talent you’ve got on your hands.”

Beatrice paused, then gave a slight smile, an undercurrent of tension seeming to arise in the room. “Of course. I’m ecstatic.”

“Clearly,” Vidric replied with a twinkle of amusement in his deep violet eyes. “Young Quinthar with combat Skills are hot commodities. And Knife-Throwing, no less.”

Soren’s brow furrowed at that statement. Before he could pull his expression back into something resembling the calm and collected one his grandmother always had him practise, Vidric glanced over.

“As Emerald-Grade Skills go, Knife-Throwing is a relatively rare one,” he explained with an indulgent smile. “And one with excellent potential. Decently dangerous at medium range, absolutely lethal from up close...”

Behind him, his bodyguard made a quiet, contemptuous sniff.

“Yes yes,” Vidric said, waving at her without even looking back. “I know you’d just bully them with that big shield of yours and close the distance, but not everyone is you, Tammi. In the right setting, Knife-Throwing can be a true nightmare, especially when combined with Knife-Fighting. Then, the humble knife suddenly becomes one of very few weapons that allows one to fight competently in melee as well as at range. And Knife-Fighting is generally considered easier to acquire.”

“Which is why I’m sure young master Talon understands that the boy isn’t for sale,” Beatrice said, before taking a sip.

Vidric laughed. “Oh my. And I hadn’t even made an offer yet.”

“And you needn’t bother. Our staff is like family. I could never put a price on them. However, it is still fortuitous that you’re here...” Beatrice paused, folding her hands together, interlocking her fingers. “It’s only right for a new Quinthar in our employ to be offered a proper Contract, after all.”

Vidric stopped in the middle of raising his glass to his lips, his brows rising slightly. “Really? I was under the impression the Thorns tend to... frown upon the use of our services.”

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“The Thorns don’t bother us too much,” Soren’s grandmother claimed with a wave of her hand. “They prefer to stay holed up in their little fortress, tinkering with their toys.”

Soren blinked, surprised at his grandmother’s dismissive tone. He’d never heard her speak about Castle Thornholm and the famously advanced mana-powered runegear of the Thorns like that before... In fact, he distinctly recalled her praising it as ‘the closest anyone’s come to the masterful runeforging of the ancient Hermean Empire.’ What is she playing at?

“Toys,” Vidric repeated amusedly. “That’s one way of putting it. Though I suppose to you their castle may as well have been built of sand. I’ve heard much of your voice; I hope age hasn’t affected it?”

“My voice is fine,” Soren’s grandmother replied calmly. “I drink a lot of tea.”

“Glad to hear it, Countess,” Vidric replied. “What a waste it would be for the Kingdom to lose such a powerful instrument. You’d think the Thorns would show you more appreciation.”

“I have no quarrel with the Thorns,” Soren’s grandmother said, her lips thin. “However, at times, practicality has to win out over politics. The boy is indebted to us. Clear terms of employ will set everyone’s mind at ease.”

“I see,” Vidric replied, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I’ll be happy to oblige. In fact, seeing as I’m already imposing on your hospitality, I’ll even waive our usual Contracting fee.”

“You’re too kind, Thar Talon,” Beatrice said. “But since you insist, we’ll accept.”

She leaned back slightly, while Vidric lifted his glass and took a sip, neither breaking eye contact. In some ways, it felt to Soren like a battle had just been fought. He had the vague impression his grandmother might have come out on top, yet Vidric seemed not at all ill at ease.

However, he had a hard time focusing on the social struggle, as he had to make every effort not to look like his head was spinning. She wants to put Rylan under a Contract? But... practically none of our Quinthar staff are under Contract!

Not that their family had that many Quinthar working for them, as they were rather expensive. The captain of the guard was one—he had Halberd-Fighting—and he kind of needed to be, as his job was to lead patrols through the cloudsea around Thistlebloom. Then there was the botanist who helped his mother in the greenhouse, and finally the tailor, who preferred to live in the nearby city of Cliffport, but came by every season with new clothes for the Thistlethorns.

Of those three, Soren was pretty sure only the captain was under Contract, and even then, only because he’d wanted instruction on Vocal Skills as a signing bonus.

A clattering noise caught his attention, then, and he turned to find Ava and Zahra, with the latter holding a tray of snacks. Another slight tremor travelled down his friend’s arms as she fully entered the room, but she managed to keep her tray still while she set it down on the little table.

Soren frowned. If he hadn’t known her as well as he did, he’d have thought she was just nervous. But he recognised the clench in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes. She may have been a little shaken, but she wasn’t nervous. She was pissed.

Did she catch the part about the Contract? Oh man...

Ava bowed and cleared her throat. “Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes; our apologies for the delay.”

With that, she bowed once more, and left, Zahra hurrying after her with a somehow angry pep in her step.

“Splendid!” Vidric said, before quaffing the rest of his wine, grabbing two snacks, and practically jumping up from the couch. “I’d be most appreciative if someone could show me to my accommodations; I’d love to freshen up.”

Soren watched mutely as Tilda led him out the room at a nod from his grandmother, with ‘Tammi’ slinking right after them. The bodyguard hesitated for a moment at the exit, turned to briefly bow to Beatrice, and only then stalked out of the room.

This left Soren alone with his grandmother, who let out a soft sigh as the door clicked shut.

As he stared at her, he felt a familiar indignation bubbling up. Unlike usual, however, he was having trouble pushing it down.

His grandmother apparently took note, frowning slightly in a way she hadn’t done once during her verbal spar with Vidric. “What’s the matter, Soren? I thought you’d be happy for your friend.”

“Why?” Soren demanded, the word spilling out almost against his will. “Why do you treat him like this?”

Her frown deepened. “Who? Vidric?”

“No, Rylan!” Soren exclaimed, finding himself standing up and gesticulating as he continued. “First you send the Deeptides away, then you put an anklet on him, now you want to put him under Contract? Why?!”

His grandmother’s face turned to stone. “Sit down and lower your voice.”

“I’d rather—”

“Sit. Down.”

Soren swallowed, and took a seat.

His grandmother took him in for a long moment, as if to see whether he’d behave, then nodded once. “We are not fools, Soren,” she said curtly. “Rylan has made it quite clear that, despite everything we’ve done for him, he would very much like to leave our estate. If it were anyone else, I’d have suggested giving him a taste of life in a free city, and simply waiting for it to chew him up and spit him out. However... I in fact do care about the fool boy, as do your parents and sister. Which is why we choose to protect him against his own foolishness.”

“By treating him like a prisoner?”

“He tried to run away through the cloudsea, Soren,” his grandmother snapped. “Would you rather have had him eaten by a cloudshark or a pack of hungry armadons?”

Soren frowned, folding his arms over his chest. Frankly, that had been exactly the worry that had driven him to confess what he’d learned about Rylan’s plans last time. However, the outcome had not been what he’d expected or hoped for...

He’d hoped that when his family learned how persistent Rylan was, that they’d relent, and let him leave. Instead, they had doubled down.

“Well then,” his grandmother continued, giving him no chance to translate his thoughts into words. “You understand we did what we had to. Of course, considering his new status, it will obviously not do to keep him locked in that anklet. Which means we’ll need a new means to... disincentivise any foolishness. Hence, a Contract. And make no mistake, we’ll offer him a fair deal; he’ll serve us for a short while, a decade or so, and then he’ll be free to do as he pleases.”

Soren’s mouth fell open. “A decade?”

“We’ll work out the details in negotiation,” his grandmother said with a sigh. “But that’s what I’ll be pushing for. You won’t truly understand the folly of youth until you’ve had a few decades under your belt to reflect on your own. Trust me.”

Soren’s jaw was starting to hurt a little from how hard he was clenching it, so he physically forced himself to relax it, drawing his face into the expression his grandmother expected of him. “What if you fail to come to an agreement?” he asked, considerably calmer than he felt.

His grandmother took a sip, crinkling her eyes at him in approval. She allowed the silence to linger for a moment longer, seeming to consider his question. “We won’t,” she finally said with certainty. “I can offer him what he wants most.”

Soren raised a brow at her. “You mean his freedom?”

Her small smile told him she appreciated the subtle barb, the mildness of his sarcasm. “No. Information.”

His brows drew together. “What, like Skill Requirements and such? Couldn’t he gain that from other sources?”

“I mean information. That’s all you need to know right now. Now, have I answered your questions to satisfaction?”

His frown deepened, as he recalled his initial question. “Keeping him here, the contract... you’re saying you’re doing all of that because you care about Rylan? And, what, I’m supposed to believe his new value doesn’t weigh into your considerations?”

“Everything weighs in my considerations,” she replied, a sharp glint in her eyes. “That is the burden of leadership, of responsibility. Take this to heart, Soren; when you inherit my position, you cannot make judgements based solely on emotions and sentimentality. Do you understand?”

Soren felt his shoulders want to droop at the reminder, but he forcibly kept them squared. “I... yes ma’am.”

Apparently, Helen had ‘neither the disposition nor the will’ to inherit the title of Viscountess currently held by their grandmother. Thus, his grandmother had decided that after his father, the title would pass on to Soren.

“Good.” She leaned back in her chair, seeming satisfied. “Keep that chin up, Soren. If I’d had any doubts about you, I would have started training one of your cousins. But I see a lot of myself in you.”

Soren glanced at her, conflicted feelings rising in his chest.

“We have an important guest today,” she continued. “After dinner, I expect you to accompany Thar Talon wherever he goes until he retires for the evening, is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now, go freshen up.”

Soren stood up, his fingers feeling strangely wooden as he picked up the sign and made his first few steps towards the door.

“Oh and Soren,” she added as he laid his hand on the handle of the door. “Whatever you do, don’t let Thar Talon get near Rylan without my supervision.”