Pavel, or what remained of him, recoiled. Five hundred. Every mark nudged him nearer to the mechanism's promised 'Ascension,' a terminus he suspected meant the final snuffing out of his thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to sever this absurd tether, to dissolve into quiet dark. But Zofia, for all her bluster and alarming penchant for self-impalement, was now his unwitting lifeline. The target’s residence proved to be a nondescript tenement in the industrial district of Klinker's End. Zofia, with Pavel’s invisible nudges preventing her from tripping on a loose cobblestone or mistaking a chimney sweep for a guard, managed to retrieve the specified 'Obsidian Quill' – a rather gaudy, jeweled letter opener – without a single serious injury. Relief settled like cool draft water. He even managed to steer her past an off-duty watchman, not by whispering, but by directing her gaze toward brass buttons catching the street lamp just before she kicked his boots. [System Points Gained: 500. Quest Complete: Ensure the ward's survival during her first official Coterie contract.] A truly unsettling sum. His transparent perimeter grew denser, pale illumination trimming the edges of his sight. He could almost taste stale medicinal tea on a long-vanished tongue. No, he thought. This was a bounty on his own dissolution. Zofia, buoyed by her 'success', was practically skipping towards the meeting point. It was a grimy establishment known as The Brine & Bolt, nestled among the dockside warehouses. The air here was thick with the scent of stale ale, brine, and desperation. The gaslights cast a sickly yellow glow on the stained wooden tables and the few patrons hunched over their drinks. Inspector Borislav, impeccable even in this squalor, sat at a secluded corner booth, nursing a glass of something dark and amber. His uniform, usually pristine, seemed to absorb some of the tavern’s grime, making him blend in more than Pavel expected. Borislav sat straight-backed in the dark timber stall, his public badge hiding darker affiliations. Pavel recalled him from a handful of polite family gatherings during his years in the sickbed—an austere relation by marriage, quiet and sharply attentive. “Korczak,” Borislav’s voice was a low growl that barely cut through the tavern’s din. He didn't look up from his drink as Zofia slid onto the bench opposite him, a triumphant grin on her face. “You’re late.” “Only by a minute, Inspector! Had to make sure the delivery was… secure,” Zofia replied, a little too loudly. She placed a small, velvet pouch on the table. Borislav’s fingers slipped the drawstrings loose, revealing the Obsidian Quill. He rolled the dark stone across his knuckles, expression shut tight. “Secure,” Borislav repeated, a dry, flat tone to his voice. “The report mentioned a rather substantial crater in the alley wall of the residence. And a minor conflagration in a refuse bin. Was that part of your ‘security protocol’?” Zofia’s grin faltered. “Minor! A mere spark! And the crater… well, a loose brick, you know how it is. Structural integrity in Klinker’s End, appalling.” She shrugged, entirely unconvincingly. Pavel inwardly sighed. That had been the moment Zofia had tried to use a grapple line, missed the window, and hit the wall with enough force to dislodge an entire section of masonry. He’d barely managed to slow her descent enough to prevent broken bones. Borislav simply stared at her, his gaze unwavering. “Right. A loose brick. And the man who lost his toupee when you ‘secured’ the target’s window? The one who now believes an angry gargoyle stole it?” “Highly superstitious man, Inspector,” Zofia offered weakly. “They’re all like that in Klinker’s End.” Borislav made a sound that might have been a suppressed groan or a stifled laugh. “Regardless. The Quill is here. Undamaged, despite your… unique approach to extraction. The Council is… pleased. Your first official contract. Commendable, Korczak.” The word sounded more like a curse than praise. Zofia beamed, oblivious to the layers of exasperation in Borislav’s voice. “Thank you, Inspector! Knew I wouldn’t let them down.” Pavel, meanwhile, examined the luminous blue-gold banners suspended before him. He had amassed a tidy balance now. What exactly did the mechanism mean by ‘Ascension’? He combed through the floating menus, hunting vainly for a dismiss command. A heading titled ‘Progression’ caught his attention, unfolding into fresh script. [Patronage Level: 2 (Minor Benefactor)] [Current Points: 550] [Next Level: Major Benefactor (1000 Patronage Points)] [Ultimate Reward: Ascension (10,000 Patronage Points)] He hesitated, then selected ‘Ascension’. The text cleared, arranging itself into plain, monstrous prose. [Ascension: The culmination of the Patronage System. Upon reaching maximum Patronage Points, the Patron's essence will be consumed and converted into raw life-force, granting the Champion eternal life and unparalleled vitality. The Patron’s journey concludes in ultimate sacrifice, ensuring the Champion’s boundless future.] Consumed. Converted. Longevity for her, total erasure for him. He was being fattened for harvest. Every slip he prevented, every catastrophe he deflected, drew the ledger closer to that final tally. Borislav pushed a folded piece of parchment across the table. “Your next assignment. Guildmaster Orest Raskolnikov. Head of the Dockworkers’ Syndicate. He’s been skimming too much from Coterie protection tariffs. We need the ledgers detailing his true profits. They’re kept in his private study at his estate, Vesper Hall, on the Merchant’s Rise.” Zofia picked up the parchment. It was an elaborate invitation. “A gala?” she asked, puzzled. “I’m to infiltrate a gala?” “The ledgers are locked away. Infiltrating by force would be… messy, even for you,” Borislav said, the corner of his mustache twitching upward. “The gala is your entry. Blend in. Extract the ledgers. And Korczak?” Borislav leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Try not to burn the place down.” He tapped the invitation. “The gala is tonight.” Zofia set her chin. “Understood, Inspector. Subtle. Elegant. Like a shadow in the night.” Pavel almost choked on a silent laugh. Subtle and elegant were not words one associated with Zofia. The last time she’d tried to be subtle, she’d somehow activated a tripwire that set off a fireworks display. As Zofia hurried out of The Brine & Bolt, full of renewed purpose, Borislav remained at his table. He pulled a small, silver locket from beneath his uniform, flipped it open, and pressed a hidden stud. A faint, almost imperceptible click sounded. He held it to his ear for a moment, then lowered it. A different, coded message had just arrived, far more urgent than Zofia’s antics. He closed his eyes briefly, a mask of weary professionalism falling into place. The message was short, chillingly precise. “The traitor is close. Your Champion is a person of interest.”

The Price of Patronage