Batavia, 1753
The canals of Batavia stank of rot. The heat was a physical weight, made heavier by the despair settling over the Aurora household. Pieter Aurora, a man broken by failing ledgers and the rattling cough from his children's room, had exhausted all mortal options. His shipping ventures were collapsing, and the plague, creeping in from the port, respected no man's ledger.
He had found the ritual in a scorched text, bought from a desperate sailor for a handful of silver. He'd dismissed it as heathen superstition. Now, in the suffocating quiet of his private study, he drew the salt circle with a trembling hand.
He did not pray for a miracle. He pleaded for a creditor.
The air did not grow hot; it grew cold. The candlelight flickered, stretching shadows long and thin. A man stepped from the darkest corner, not as a beast, but as an answer.
He was tall, wearing a dark, high-collared coat of a cut Pieter had never seen—precise, immaculate. He looked less like a demon and more like a high-ranking official from the Company, only his stillness was absolute. His gaze was analytical, his eyes holding the flat, patient calm of the truly ancient.
"You have called," the man stated. His voice was smooth, carrying no echo.
"My family is ruined," Pieter whispered, the salt crunching under his boots. "My line will end. I... I need protection. Prosperity. An assurance against this."
The stranger, Maher Xander, stepped past the salt line as if it were not there. He ran a gloved finger along a dusty ledger. "Prosperity is a simple matter of logistics. Protection is a matter of investment. I can grant both."
"And the price? My soul?"
A faint, dismissive smile touched Maher's lips. "Your soul is already mortgaged to fear. It holds little value." He moved to the window, looking not at Pieter, but at the moon hanging over the feverish city.
"Your bloodline will flourish," Maher said. "Your ships will come in. Your children will heal. My protection is absolute. But the payment is deferred."
He turned back, his eyes pinning Pieter to the spot. "On the seventh cycle of the seventh generation, when the stars align over this city, I will return. And I will collect the most valuable payment your line possesses. One soul, to finalize the debt. A price for the city you wish to conquer."
Pieter, trapped between the plague and the devil, saw only one path. "I agree."
Maher XClick produced a simple roll of parchment and a small, silver-handled blade. "A signature, to seal the ledger."
Blood was drawn. The ink was red. As it dried, Maher Xander nodded—a quiet acknowledgment of a transaction completed. He tucked the parchment into his coat.
"Your account is now open, Heer Aurora. Do not default."
Maher turned and stepped back into the corner he had emerged from. He did not disappear; he was simply... consumed. His shadow, for a moment, seemed to stretch, swallowing the candlelight and the room, before snapping back.
Pieter Aurora was left alone, suddenly cold, with the scent of cloves, rot, and the sudden, undeniable chill of prosperity.