Victor's arms were dead meat. Alien things attached to his shoulders by burning tendons. They hung uselessly at his sides, trembling with a violent, rhythmic spasm that made his fingers twitch.
He stared at the object in his lap. Heavy. Warm. Covered in a thick, translucent slime that smelled of ozone and wet dog.
The Petrified Tear.
A minute ago, this thing had been leaking out of the eye of a giant, mythical wolf. Now, it was a solid crystal the size of a watermelon.
Don't drop it, Victor thought. If you drop it, it explodes. Or hatches. Or bites.
Across the ruined hall, the source of the tear let out a long, shuddering sigh. Fenrisulfr—the World Eater, the Breaker of Chains, the creature that was supposed to swallow the sun—shifted in his sleep. A massive paw twitched. A landslide in slow motion.
Victor stopped breathing.
The wolf didn't wake up. He just rolled over, exposing a belly that was a field of black fur, and let out a snore that rattled the few remaining windowpanes.
He was asleep. Actually asleep.
Victor slumped back against the pillar. The stone was cold against his spine, leeching the sweat from his shirt. The adrenaline that had kept him upright for the last hour drained away, leaving behind a hollow, shaky nausea. He needed sugar. He needed a lawyer. He needed to not be holding a slimy crystal ball.
Then the invasion began.
It wasn't a sound. It was a spike of ice driven directly into his frontal lobe.
Victor gasped, clutching his head with one hand, the other still hugging the slime-rock. The information didn't appear as a blue box. It didn't float in the air. It forced itself into his memory, rewriting his synapses. A branding iron to the cortex.
Tear of the World-Eater (Juvenile).
The knowledge tasted of iron. It burned.
Grade S. Highly concentrated emotional residue. Volatile. Delicious to certain abyssal entities.
The pain pulsed behind his eyes, a rhythmic thumping that matched his heartbeat. Then came the number. It wasn't a visual; it was a sudden, absolute certainty, as if he had always known the market price of solidified wolf sorrow.
Estimated Market Value: 500,000 Gold.
Victor blinked. The headache receded, leaving a dull throb behind his eyes and a nosebleed dripping onto his shirt. He wiped it away with a trembling hand.
Five hundred thousand.
He looked at the rock again. The slime didn't look gross anymore. It was liquid assets.
"Half a million," he whispered. His voice was a dry croak. "I'm rich."
For a second, the terror of the night evaporated. He did the math. He could buy a car. He could buy a house. He could buy a plane ticket to a country that didn't have giant wolves. He could buy a new identity. He could buy safety.
Creeeeak.
The sound came from the floor. Not a footstep. A tree splitting in a storm.
Victor stiffened. He pulled his legs in, hugging the tear tighter. "Who's there?"
The parquet floor in the center of the hall began to warp. The wood groaned, the varnish cracking as the boards twisted upward, weaving together. Wickerwork made of solid oak. In seconds, a shape formed. It rose from the debris, tall and thin, composed entirely of polished mahogany and dark oak roots.
It had legs. It had arms. It had a face carved by a master sculptor who hated smiling.
The wooden figure brushed sawdust off its lapels. It wore a tuxedo made of pressed bark.
"Good evening, Master Corvinus," the thing said. His voice was dry. Dead leaves skittering on pavement. "I trust the diagnostic session was productive?"
Victor stared. "You're a tree."
"I am the House Steward," the figure corrected. It bowed, a stiff, creaking motion. A ship's hull under pressure. "Yggdrasil. At your service. Though I must apologize for the state of the foyer. The previous tenant was... untidy."
Yggdrasil looked around the wrecked hall. He spotted the claw marks on the walls, the shattered chandelier, the puddle of wolf drool near the door. He didn't look horrified. He looked disappointed. A parent finding a sock on the floor.
"I will have the drones attend to this," Yggdrasil said. He turned his wooden eyes to Victor. "Refreshment, sir?"
Victor nodded dumbly. He didn't trust his voice.
The butler extended a hand. A vine shot out of his cuff, flowered rapidly, withered, and dropped a tea cup into his palm. Another vine poured a dark, steaming liquid into it.
"Root tea," Yggdrasil said, offering it. "A vintage blend. Compost and morning dew."
Victor took the cup. His hands were shaking so bad the liquid sloshed over the rim, scalding his thumb. He didn't care. He took a sip.
Hot mud. Rich, loamy, and strangely comforting. Rain hitting dry earth in the summer.
"Thanks," Victor choked out. "So. You work here?"
"I am here, sir," Yggdrasil said. "The Manor and I are... intertwined. I manage the grounds, the staff, and the accounts."
"Accounts." Victor perked up. He patted the slimy rock in his lap. "Good. Great. Because I have this. The... uh... System thing said it's worth five hundred thousand."
He said the number with emphasis. He wanted to see the wood-man be impressed.
Yggdrasil didn't blink. He didn't have eyelids. "An excellent find, sir. Most fortunate. That should cover the interest payment for the first week."
Victor froze. The cup stopped halfway to his mouth. "The what?"
"The interest, sir."
Yggdrasil reached into his jacket pocket—a hollow in his bark—and pulled out a scroll. It was long. It kept unrolling. It hit the floor and rolled past the sleeping wolf, stopping near the door. It smelled ancient. Dust and dried blood.
"The inheritance transfer fee," Yggdrasil listed, pointing a long, twig-like finger at the items. "The soul-binding tax. The containment ward energy bill. The monster food budget—Mr. Fenrisulfr requires three tons of high-grade meat daily, or he begins to gnaw on the structural supports. And, of course, the outstanding principal."
Victor looked at the bottom of the scroll. The numbers were written in red ink. They shimmered, wet and fresh.
Total Debt: 50,000,000 Gold.
Due Date: T-minus 23 hours, 45 minutes.
Victor looked at the rock in his lap. Five hundred thousand.
He looked at the scroll. Fifty million.
The math rearranged itself in his head. The car, the house, the plane ticket—they all caught fire and turned into ash. The ash tasted bitter in his mouth.
"This is..." Victor swallowed. "This is impossible."
"Difficult, certainly," Yggdrasil agreed. "But not impossible. The Manor is a place of business, Master Corvinus. The Clinic is designed to generate revenue."
"Clinic?" Victor laughed. A high, thin sound. "I'm not a doctor. I'm a psychology student. I haven't even finished my thesis. I treat anxiety, not... whatever that is." He gestured at the wolf.
"And yet," Yggdrasil said, "he is asleep."
Victor looked at Fenrir. The wolf was twitching in his sleep, chasing dream-rabbits. He looked peaceful. Huge, terrifying, but peaceful.
"That was an accident," Victor said. "I just rubbed his ears."
"You diagnosed a need," Yggdrasil said. "You provided a solution. That is the essence of medicine, is it not?"
Another spike of pain hit Victor's skull. This one was sharper. A needle threading through his temples, stitching the hemispheres of his brain together.
System Integration: Phase 2.
Victor squeezed his eyes shut. He gasped, dropping the tea cup. It shattered.
The Clinic Management module didn't ask for permission. It invaded. A spreadsheet burned itself into the back of his eyelids. It wasn't a clean Excel sheet. It was carved into stone tablets, the numbers glowing with a sickly green light.
Facility Integrity: CRITICAL.
Staff: 2 (1 Steward, 1 Security).
Reputation: NULL.
Pending Patients: 1.
The concept of "Critical Failure" flooded his nervous system. It felt like standing on a cliff edge. Copper on the tongue.
Victor opened his eyes, panting. "Pending patients?"
"Ah," Yggdrasil said. He tilted his head. "That would be the doorbell."
"I didn't hear a doorbell."
DOOOOOM.
The sound didn't come from the door. It came from the ground. It vibrated through the floorboards, up Victor's spine, and rattled his teeth. A church bell submerged in the ocean. Deep. Heavy. Wet.
"The doorbell," Yggdrasil clarified, "is somewhat theatrical."
Victor scrambled to his feet, still clutching the rock. "No. No more. I'm closed. I'm off the clock. I need to sleep for three days."
"The debt, sir," Yggdrasil reminded him gently. He tapped the scroll. "Compound interest is a cruel mistress. She does not sleep."
The bell tolled again. DOOOOOM.
Something was scratching at the front door. Not the scratch of a dog. Metal on metal. A knife carving its way through the wood. The sound set Victor's teeth on edge. It was hungry. Desperate. It wanted in, and it didn't care if it had to peel the door apart splinter by splinter.
"I believe," Yggdrasil said, fading back into the shadows, becoming furniture once more, "the patient is impatient."
Victor looked at the door. The wood was thick, reinforced with iron bands, but he could see it vibrating.
He looked at the sleeping wolf.
~ looked at the slimy rock.
~ looked at the scroll of debt.
"I hate this place," Victor whispered.
He walked toward the door.