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"One vial with each future exchange," he says. "I reserve half of every goligan shipment before it reaches another stall. You receive sun-starved nimond at two measures for three jetons."

"One measure for one jeton when oxidation has begun."

"One and a half."

"Agreed, if you send notice to House Obsidius before the red line reaches the beans."

He extends a scaled hand.

I clasp it.

His grip is careful, not out of concern for my human bones, but because Draxon's seal rests between us.

"The apothecary of House Obsidius has an arrangement," he announces.

Not the breeder. Not the human pet.

The aide studies the remaining vials. "If the storm-net reports success, House Varnek may require six doses."

That is not acceptance, but it is no longer dismissal. His rank remains above mine. House Varnek will not welcome me through its doors as an equal, and the merchant will still demand proof of Draxon's authority before honoring our exchange.

But the wording matters.

I arrived as property permitted to spend a lord's coin.

I leave with nimond beans, a continuing trade agreement, and customers who know what my hands can make.

The distance between property and artisan remains dangerous ground.

Today, I claim one more step of it.

18

DRAXON

The storm outside the high windows of my chambers has not yet broken. Rain drives against the reinforced glass in long sheets. Inside, the only light comes from the low bank of hearth crystals along the far wall. Beatrix stands near the central table with her back to me, still in the dark green gown she wore to the Varnek negotiation. Dust from the merchant quarter clings to the hem. Her mouse-brown hair is half-loose from the leather strip; a few strands stick to the damp skin at her nape. The bone-handled knife remains at her hip.

She does not turn when I close the door.

“The guards at my door are still there,” she says.

“They will remain.”

“I closed the Varnek contract without them. House Varnek’s supplier addressed me as the apothecary of House Obsidius. Not pet. Not breeder. I did that myself.”

“I know.”

“Then stop treating me like something that will shatter the moment you look away.”

I cross the room. The carapace plates of my lower legs strike the stone with soft, measured sounds. She is small enough that the top of her head reaches only the lower edge of my chest plates when I stop behind her. I do not touch her yet. The discipline the arena hammered into me holds, but only just. The scent of her. The clean sweat, and the sharper note of residual triumph pulls at the leash I keep on myself.

“I am not treating you as something that will shatter,” I say. “I am treating you as something Korgath will try to break the moment sabotage fails. The guards stay.”

She turns. Green eyes catch the crystal light. The anger is still there, but it no longer carries the old belief that I simply walked away from her. That much has shifted since I told her the truth about Asmodeus. She is still angry. She is also choosing to stand here.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“Yes.”