Chapter 012: Lucian's Mulligan
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{FREDAS, SOLYRA 20, 999 – 08:03}
{EINA TULLE}
The morning began, as most mornings did in the Guild, with ink and exasperation. Eina Tulle sat at her desk beside the window, sipping tea that had gone tepid long before she'd noticed. Stacks of parchment leaned precariously in towers of pending reports—familia rosters, Dungeon incidents, supply requests, merchant registrations. It was peaceful in that way only an office full of half-asleep bureaucrats could be.
She'd nearly convinced herself that today might be normal. Then Royman Mardeel's voice ruptured the morning calm like a brass gong dropped down a staircase.
"Where," he demanded, "is the artifact filing ledger!?"
Every clerk within ten paces froze. One, the poor man closest to the director's path, scrambled up so fast he spilled ink across a requisition form and nearly tripped over his own stool.
Eina sighed. "Good morning to you too, Director."
Royman entered with the pomp of a general and the gait of a man whose knees had long ago given up on diplomacy. His round face was red already, his immaculate black suit straining faintly at the buttons, and his white hair looked as though it had been styled with righteous fury. He carried a bundle of papers under one arm, thick as a brick and twice as threatening.
"Good morning," he said without looking at her, though the tone implied he regretted the concept entirely. "Where's Rellen?"
"Archiving the Dungeon reports from last night," Eina said. "Why-?"
Royman slammed the papers onto the nearest clear surface. "Because our city has been invaded by an unlicensed merchant wielding an unidentified artifact that seems capable of producing goods from nothing. And because," he jabbed a pudgy finger toward the room at large, "the Guild will not be made to look like fools in front of the Adventurer's Quarter!"
Eina blinked. "The… water seller?"
"Yes, the water seller!"
The clerks who had been pretending not to listen now stopped pretending. Heads turned like flowers toward sunlight—or in this case, disaster.
Royman motioned sharply. "You, girl—fetch the Artifact and Commerce Registration Form C-17. You—ink, quills, seals, everything. We're filing this personally."
Eina set down her cup with the faint, practiced grace of someone who had worked under Royman long enough to know that interference only made it worse. She watched as clerks scrambled to obey.
Within minutes, the table was an organized chaos of parchment and ink. Royman stood over it like a commander surveying a siege.
"All right," he said. "Name: Lucian Gilford. Occupation: Merchant. Origin: Unknown. Nature of artifact-"
The clerk's quill snapped clean in half.
Royman's head turned so fast the folds under his chin shifted. "Why did you stop writing?"
"It… broke, sir." The young man held up the splintered pen. "I can fetch another-"
"Then fetch three!"
Another clerk handed over a replacement quill, already inked. She began again. "Nature of artifact: presumed spatial containment-"
The ink vanished from the page. Not smudged, not faded—simply gone. The parchment was pristine.
Eina's brows lifted slightly. "That's new."
Royman leaned forward, squinting. "You didn't let it dry!"
"I swear I did, sir."
"Then use more ink!"
The quill dipped deeper, the nib dragging across the parchment with enough force to tear a faint groove. The black letters appeared bold and sharp. For all of two seconds. Then, before their eyes, the words unraveled—each line curling away like thread, leaving only faint indentations.
Royman's expression twitched. "Is there something wrong with the paper?"
Eina murmured, "I don't think it's the paper, Director."
A second clerk tried another sheet. He got as far as "Lucian Gi-" before the tip of his quill exploded into droplets. The ink spattered across his hands, across the form, across Royman's sleeve. The Guild director's jaw locked audibly.
One brave soul muttered, "Maybe the system doesn't recognize him, sir."
"The system," Royman thundered, "recognizes what I tell it to recognize!"
Eina sipped the last of her cold tea. "Apparently not this time."
He ignored her, pacing in a tight circle that made the floorboards creak. Then, with a growl low enough to make the clerks step back, he snatched the nearest quill. "Fine! If no one here can write a simple registration, then I'll do it myself."
The clerks collectively held their breath. Royman bent over the parchment, his handwriting surprisingly elegant for a man so perpetually agitated. He wrote with painstaking precision, muttering as he went:
Lucian Gilford, unregistered merchant, hereby subject to standard taxation, oversight, and regulatory audit under Guild law and royal decree.
He finished with a flourish, straightened, and smirked triumphantly. "See? Perfect. The ink stays. The parchment holds. That's how it's done."
He reached for the Guild seal—an ornate brass stamp heavy enough to qualify as a weapon—and pressed it down with a satisfying thud.
"There," he declared. "Filed and sealed."
Eina tilted her head, studying the parchment. The words looked darker now, almost too dark, the ink pooling in unnatural thickness before shimmering faintly. She frowned.
"Director…"
Royman puffed out his chest. "Yes?"
Rellen, who had returned just in time to witness the tail end of the spectacle, peered over her shoulder. "You might wish to read what you've sealed."
Royman blinked, annoyed, but humored them. His eyes dropped to the page.
And froze.
The ink shifted under his gaze, letters sliding gently into new shapes as though the paper were alive and growing bored of his authority. The line now read:
Lucian Gilford, Merchant of Unregistered Provenance, shall henceforth remain exempt from taxation, levies, licensing, or audit by any civic or divine office, by order of the Custodial Mandate.
A silence fell so thick Eina could hear the faint scratch of a quill two rooms away.
Royman stared. Then his lips trembled. "What—what is that supposed to mean?"
Rellen exhaled, long-suffering. "It appears, Director, that the… Custodial Mandate has made its ruling."
"Custodial what?"
"It seems," Eina said gently, "that the universe just wrote your law for you."
The parchment glimmered faintly as if pleased with itself, the ink hardening into permanence. Royman's seal, pressed proudly at the bottom, gleamed like it had been gilded by divine mockery.
Eina folded her arms. "Congratulations, sir. You've granted him immunity."
Royman blinked twice, color draining from his face. "Immunity?"
"Complete," Rellen confirmed, tone as dry as old vellum. "You've personally certified that he cannot be taxed, fined, or audited by anyone in Orario—or the gods themselves, if that clause means what I think it does."
Royman's mouth opened and closed twice before he managed a strangled noise halfway between a gasp and a growl. "You're telling me," he said slowly, "that I—I—have just… legalized his exemption!?"
Eina smiled faintly. "You even stamped it."
For a moment, the Guild was utterly still. Then Royman roared—loud enough to rattle every windowpane in the front hall. A flock of pigeons outside took flight in alarm.
From her desk, Eina picked up her pen and made a quiet note on a slip of parchment:
Lucian Gilford: officially untouchable. See attached incident for entertainment purposes.
She glanced back at Royman, who was tearing through drawers for something—anything—to undo the document. He would find nothing. The Custodial Mandate didn't make mistakes.
Eina allowed herself a small, private smile. Well, she thought, at least he won't be bored this week.
Royman's tantrum echoed well into the next hour. Clerks pretended to work, though every quill in the building seemed to slow in reverence to his misery. It was like watching a storm confined to a single office, thunder muted behind paper walls.
Eina returned to her desk, her pile of forms mercifully dull compared to whatever cosmic farce had just unfolded. Yet the Guild was alive with whispers, little rivulets of conversation passing from desk to desk faster than any official memo could travel.
"Did you hear? The artifact merchant—"
"They say the director himself certified him untaxable—"
"No, no, it was divine interference—"
"I heard the paper spoke."
Each retelling gained new embellishments. By the time it reached the far corridor, the story had acquired an entire pantheon's worth of divine signatures and an official decree from Ouranos himself. Someone even claimed the ink had burned with gold fire and that Royman's seal melted to the desk.
Eina let them have their stories. Rumors were the Guild's favorite currency after Valis, and a scandal like this was worth a fortune in gossip. Still, she found herself smiling faintly behind a hand as she organized her stack of adventurer reports.
Royman's voice drifted faintly from his office—muffled shouts, the sound of drawers opening, and, once, the faint crack of wood splintering. For all his arrogance, it was almost satisfying to see him finally meet something he couldn't bully, bribe, or berate into submission. She wouldn't admit it aloud, but she was quietly grateful for whatever strange hand of fate had pulled the rug from under him.
He'd call it divine harassment before the day was over. Eina would call it balance.
The rhythm of the Guild gradually returned. Clerks moved about with purpose again, adventurers trickled in to file quest reports or argue about payments, and the endless shuffle of parchment and boots reasserted itself. Eina set her spectacles higher on her nose and turned to the next file in her queue—an incident report from the 7th floor, something about exploding frogs—when the scent of mint and steel drifted past.
"Morning," came Rose Fannett's voice, clipped but cordial.
Eina looked up, startled to find the werewolf standing at her desk. Rose's uniform was pressed sharp as ever, her golden eyes cool and alert, her long hair pulled into a strict tail that brushed her shoulder guard. Even at ease, she carried herself like a blade sheathed out of politeness rather than need.
"Good morning," Eina said, softening her tone. "You're here early."
Rose set down a small stack of documents. "Follow-up reports from yesterday's inspection. Director's orders."
Eina glanced at them—neatly compiled, stamped, signed. Efficient as always. "And he actually let you out of his sight?"
A corner of Rose's mouth twitched. "He's busy trying to file an appeal to the gods."
Eina chuckled before she could stop herself. "I'll pray for his success."
"I wouldn't," Rose said. She adjusted her gloves, expression unreadable. "I'm heading to the merchant district to visit Lucian."
Eina stilled. "Why?"
Rose inclined her head slightly. "He apparently requested a language tutor. I intend to accept the offer."
Eina blinked. "I wasn't aware there was a request."
"There isn't," Rose replied, tone flat as parchment. "Yet."
Eina frowned faintly. "Then how do you know about it?"
Rose gave her the kind of look that implied she knew far more than she was willing to share. "He will make one. I'm just being efficient."
"That's one word for it," Eina murmured.
"I prefer thorough." Rose's tail flicked once, betraying faint amusement. "The Guild needs more information about his… device. I'll provide it."
Eina leaned back in her chair, studying her. "Is that all you're after?"
Rose didn't answer immediately. "He's unregistered, foreign, and apparently immune to the laws of commerce. If he's harmless, good. If he isn't, I'd rather find out early."
It was a fair answer. A careful one. Too careful.
Eina nodded slowly. "You always did like getting ahead of trouble."
"Trouble doesn't wait for permission." Rose turned, steps crisp on the tile as she made for the door. "I'll file a report when I return."
Eina watched her go, the morning light catching the faint silver streaks in her hair as she passed through the Guild's front hall. Conversations dimmed in her wake—Rose had that effect.
When she was gone, Eina stared at the empty space she'd left behind and tapped her pen against the desk.
Rose Fannett didn't volunteer for things without reason. She didn't teach, she didn't socialize, and she certainly didn't take requests that didn't exist. Whatever she saw in that strange merchant, it was more than curiosity.
Eina looked at the sealed parchment still lying on Royman's desk across the hall—the one now protected by three layers of magical wards just to stop him from tearing it apart—and wondered if perhaps the city itself had decided to play a game with all of them.
Somewhere out there, a foreigner with clear water and a black device had just been made untouchable. And now Rose was walking straight toward him.
Eina smiled faintly, a quiet, knowing thing. "Well," she murmured under her breath, returning to her papers, "this should be interesting."
Eina barely made it through the next page of her report before the Guild doors creaked open again—not the usual polite swing of an early adventurer, but a dramatic double-throw that announced a god with no respect for hinges.
Conversations faltered, heads turned. Even the clerks who had weathered Royman's morning eruption stiffened as if anticipating another.
Loki strolled in like she owned the building.
Her crimson hair shimmered under the morning light, her half-lidded grin promising trouble before she even opened her mouth. She wore casual adventuring clothes—practical, comfortable, and just ostentatious enough to remind everyone she could afford otherwise. The air around her carried a faint, indefinable energy, the sort that made mortals instinctively straighten their backs.
"Einaaa~," she sang as she approached, hands folded behind her head, eyes flicking around the office with delighted mischief. "Where's my favorite paperwork fairy hiding?"
Eina did not sigh. She did not roll her eyes. She'd learned long ago that Loki considered both to be encouragement.
"Good morning, Lady Loki," she said instead, with all the diplomatic evenness of a woman who had mastered the art of divine containment. "I wasn't aware you had business with the Guild today."
"Oh, I don't," Loki said cheerfully, leaning across Eina's desk as though they were conspirators rather than a god and a public servant. "But my ears keep picking up these little whispers."
Eina closed her folder with deliberate patience. "Whispers."
"Mhm." Loki's grin widened. "Something about a mortal peddler who can pull goods from thin air. Even Riveria's curious—and you know how rare that is. She doesn't leave her tower for anything short of existential emergencies or bad tea."
Eina's brows lifted. "So it's reached the Loki Familia already."
"Oh, it's reached everywhere, darling." Loki half-perched on the edge of the desk, ignoring decorum entirely. "Half the market thinks he's an apostle of Hermes. The other half thinks he's cursed. One of my girls swore she saw Riveria herself standing outside a water stall with her arms crossed. Do you know how many people live to tell that story?"
Eina pressed her lips together, fighting the tug of a smile. "The merchant's name is Lucian Gilford. He's… unconventional."
"That's a polite way of saying weird," Loki said.
"I prefer accurate."
Loki chuckled. "And Royman? I heard he tried to tax the poor soul."
Eina's tone was cool, almost serene. "He did more than try. He succeeded—technically. The result was… counterproductive."
Loki's eyes sparkled. "Do tell."
Eina considered how best to phrase cosmic interference in terms that wouldn't sound like madness. "He attempted to register Lucian's trade license. The paperwork… disagreed."
"Disagreed?"
"Rewrote itself," Eina said, stacking her folders. "Apparently the universe has stronger opinions on commerce than our director."
Loki burst out laughing, drawing startled looks from the nearby clerks. "Oh, that's beautiful! About time something bit that pompous elf in the rear. Did he cry?"
"Not outwardly."
"Shame. I'd have paid to see it."
Eina gave her a long-suffering look. "Lady Loki, is there a reason you came here yourself?"
"Curiosity," Loki said with an unapologetic shrug. "When Riveria starts showing interest in some mortal trinket merchant, I start to wonder what sort of mortal could do that."
She leaned closer, eyes sharp despite the smile. "So tell me, what do you think of him?"
Eina considered the question, weighing her words. "He's polite. Confused, certainly. Foreign, and yet surprisingly composed for someone who doesn't seem to understand half of what's said to him. Whatever he's doing… I don't believe it's malicious."
Loki hummed thoughtfully. "You sound like you like him."
"I sound like I did my job."
"Same thing, depending who you ask." Loki stretched, spine popping audibly, then hopped off the desk. "Well, I'll let you get back to your forms, paperwork fairy. But if you see that Lucian fellow again—tell him Loki's curious. And when I'm curious, the city gets very interesting."
Eina resisted the urge to groan. "Noted."
The goddess strolled off, humming to herself, trailed by the faint buzz of speculation that followed her everywhere she went. By the time the doors shut behind her, three clerks were already whispering about what her interest might mean, and whether the "merchant blessed by the stars" might soon find himself dining at Twilight Manor.
Eina pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. The Guild thrived on routine—forms, filings, regulations. But lately, Orario seemed intent on reminding her that peace was never more than a rumor itself.
She reached for her pen again, muttering under her breath, "He's been here less than a week."
The pen scratched softly over parchment, the ink settling into neat, tidy lines.
Lucian Gilford — probable catalyst for chaos.