The Valerius manor’s grand entrance swallows Tomas whole, the heavy iron door clanging shut behind him with a resonant thud that vibrates through the marble floor. A footman, stiff in House Valerius crimson and gold livery, stands waiting, his face expressionless. The air here smells of polished wood, aged paper, and something sharp, almost like crushed jasmine, entirely unlike the Lower Ward’s usual mix of wet stone and stale cooking oil. Tomas’s boots, scuffed from Ashcourt’s grimy streets, feel impossibly loud against the silence. “Master Vell, if you would follow me.” The footman’s voice is flat, devoid of warmth. He turns, his movements economical, and starts down a corridor wider than Tomas’s entire office. Tomas falls into step behind him, his gaze sweeping over the surroundings. Every surface gleams. Tapestries depicting serene pastoral scenes, far removed from any reality Tomas knows, hang from walls adorned with intricate gilded molding. Sculptures of classical figures, all impossibly smooth skin and flowing drapery, occupy alcoves carved into the thick stone. The light, filtered through enormous arched windows set high in the wall, falls in long, pale shafts, illuminating dust motes dancing in the heavy air. He passes a series of portraits, each face gazing down with an unsettling calm. Ancestors, he presumes, their years likely bought and transferred from countless nameless souls. The weight of their stolen lives seems to press down, a silent accusation in this monument to their enduring power. His silver ring feels a sudden prickle of cold against his skin, a faint warning that makes the hairs on his arms rise. It’s an almost imperceptible tremor, a whisper in his perception, but it’s there. Something in this house, or someone, is a vast reservoir of years, and the ring is reacting. The footman continues, leading him deeper into the manor’s labyrinthine interior. Each turn reveals another vista of wealth, another display of effortless luxury. Tomas feels the chasm between their worlds widen with every step. His own existence, a constant grind for coin and survival, seems vulgar in comparison. He is a piece of grit dragged into a jewel box, and he can practically feel the Valerius manor’s opulent walls judging him. He tries to keep his breathing even, his expression neutral. To show any awe or discomfort would be to show weakness. He is Tomas Vell, the best damn ledger keeper in Ashcourt, even if he only has four years left to prove it. He is here on business. Their business. The corridor eventually opens into a vast gallery, lined with even more portraits and display cases filled with ancient-looking artifacts. The air here is cooler, heavier. He spots a pair of armored figures standing sentinel at the far end, their polished breastplates reflecting the filtered light like distant stars. Guards. This isn’t just a home; it’s a fortress, protecting its precious hoard of time. He shifts his weight, the leather of his boots creaking softly. The footman pauses before a towering set of double doors, carved from dark, unyielding wood and inlaid with silver griffins. He knocks once, a crisp, precise sound, and waits. The silence stretches, thick and expectant, until a soft voice from within bids them enter. --- The doors swing inward without a sound, revealing a chamber that makes the previous hallways seem almost understated. Lady Seraphina Valerius sits at a vast desk carved from a single slab of obsidian, its surface reflecting the room’s glow like still water. She is framed by a tall, arched window that overlooks a manicured garden, her silhouette sharp against the bright green. Tomas takes her in: the dark sapphire gown that flows like liquid, the silver hair pulled back into an elaborate braid, secured with pins that catch the light. She looks up as he enters, her eyes – the same piercing blue as the portrait in the entrance hall – fixing on him with an unnerving intensity. They are eyes that have seen centuries, he realizes, eyes that hold a chilling intelligence. She doesn't smile, not truly, but a faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of her lips, a predatory hint that sends a shiver down his spine. “Master Vell.” Her voice is low, perfectly modulated, each syllable clear and precise. It carries a faint, melodic quality, like a chime heard from a great distance. “You are prompt. A rarity in our dealings with the Lower Ward, I find.” Tomas steps forward, stopping a respectful distance from the desk. He doesn’t offer his hand. She makes no move to offer hers. “Lady Seraphina,” he replies, his voice steady, betraying none of the apprehension tightening his gut. “When House Valerius calls, one does not dally.” A delicate silver teacup sits on the obsidian desk, a wisp of steam curling from its rim. She picks it up, her movements graceful, almost languid. “Indeed.” She takes a slow sip, her gaze never leaving his face. “Please, take a seat.” She gestures with the cup towards a heavy upholstered chair opposite her. It looks far too comfortable, an invitation to relax that feels like a trap. He settles into the chair, the velvet soft beneath him. It’s a trick, he knows. The softness, the quiet luxury, it’s all designed to disarm. He folds his hands in his lap, forcing himself to meet her gaze directly. He can’t read her years. Her aura, a shimmering, complex tapestry, is too vast, too ancient to resolve into a simple number. It’s like trying to count the grains of sand on a beach with a single glance. “I trust the terms of our arrangement were clear in the scroll?” she asks, her voice still smooth as polished glass. “The… artisan, as we termed him. His full remaining lifespan. Irreversible transfer.” “Perfectly clear, Lady Seraphina,” Tomas confirms. “A difficult transaction, but not impossible.” He leaves the unsaid hanging in the air: *expensive, politically charged, and likely morally repugnant.* But he doesn't say it. Not yet. Her gaze flickers, a subtle shift that suggests she caught the unspoken nuances. “Good. We prefer clarity, Master Vell. Especially when dealing with matters of… significance.” She places the teacup back on the desk with a soft clink. The sound resonates in the quiet room, an almost musical note. “Tell me, Master Vell. Do you always approach your work with such… diligence?” It’s a simple question, but her tone implies a deeper meaning, a probe. Tomas feels the invisible weight of her scrutiny. He maintains his composure. “I pride myself on my ledger keeping, Lady Seraphina. Every transaction precise, every year accounted for.” --- Seraphina leans back in her chair, a slow, deliberate movement. The sapphire gown shifts with her, catching the light. “Precision is admirable, Master Vell. A rare quality in your… profession.” Her eyes narrow, just perceptibly. “It suggests a certain… understanding of the finer points. The delicate balance of life, perhaps. Or its absence.” A cold tendril of unease snakes through Tomas. Her words, innocent on the surface, carry a hidden barb. “I understand the market, Lady Seraphina,” he says, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible. His heart gives a sudden, hard thud against his ribs. “The value of a year. The desperate need that drives both seller and buyer.” “Indeed,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on his face, as if she could see the very thoughts forming behind his eyes. “A desperate need. One that can lead men to… interesting places. The Under-Market, for instance. A rather vibrant, if uncouth, nexus of such desperation, wouldn’t you agree?” The air leaves Tomas’s lungs in a silent gasp. The room seems to tilt, the polished obsidian desk blurring at the edges. *The Under-Market.* He hasn’t thought of it, hasn’t allowed himself to think of it, in years. A lifetime. The memory, a jagged shard of pain, flashes through him: the stench of mildew and cheap spirits, the hushed transactions, the faces of those who offered their futures for a single moment of relief. And the incident. His own part in it. It was a place he’d buried, locked away in the darkest corners of his mind. He grips his knees, his knuckles white under the thin fabric of his trousers. “The Under-Market is… a necessary evil,” he manages, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He forces himself to meet her gaze, to project an air of detached professionalism, even as his insides twist into a knot. “A necessary evil,” Seraphina repeats, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. It’s not a smile of amusement, but of confirmation. She knows. She knows something specific. “And sometimes, such necessities bring unfortunate incidents, do they not? Moments that linger, like a stain on silk. Even for those who prefer to forget.” His breath hitches. His silver ring, usually a comfortable weight, suddenly feels searing hot, almost burning against his finger. The cold prickle he felt earlier in the hall now makes sense. She is not just powerful in years; she is powerful in information. He has profoundly underestimated her. This isn't just about brokering a life; it's about something far more insidious, something directed at *him*. “I am a broker, Lady Seraphina,” he states, his voice regaining some of its steel. He pushes back, trying to regain some control, some distance. “I facilitate transactions. My past, unfortunate or otherwise, is not relevant to our present business.” Her smile widens, a fraction, but enough to show the sharp edge of her teeth. “Everything is relevant, Master Vell. Especially when it comes to time. And some pasts, no matter how deeply buried, have a way of resurfacing, don’t they? Like bodies dragged from a shallow grave.” He feels a cold sweat break out on his forehead. She watches him, her blue eyes fathomless, dissecting him. He is exposed, laid bare. She hasn’t just summoned him for a deal; she has summoned him because she knows his weakness, his shame. The realization hits him with the force of a physical blow. He is a pawn, not a peer. --- Seraphina raises a hand, a subtle gesture. The footman, who must have been waiting just beyond the doors, enters with a soft rustle of livery. “Our discussion is concluded for now, Master Vell,” she says, her voice returning to its smooth, distant tone. “You have your instructions. Find the artisan. Broker the transfer. We expect results.” Tomas pushes himself out of the deep velvet chair, his muscles stiff, his mind reeling. He manages a curt nod. “As you wish, Lady Seraphina.” His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears. The image of the Under-Market, the shame and the terror of that night, burns in his mind like a fresh wound. The footman steps to his side, his presence a silent command. Tomas turns, his gaze sweeping over Seraphina one last time. She is watching him, a faint, almost pitying expression on her face, like a collector admiring a particularly fragile specimen. He walks towards the double doors, the footman a silent shadow beside him. Each step feels heavy, weighted not by the opulence of the manor, but by the sudden, chilling knowledge that Seraphina Valerius knows more about him than he thought possible. He feels her eyes on his back, a prickling sensation that makes his skin crawl. As he reaches the doorway, Seraphina’s voice drifts after him, soft and clear, cutting through the vast silence of the chamber. “Don’t disappoint me, Tomas. After all, time is so precious, isn’t it? Especially for those who have so little left.”

Beneath Gilded Veneers