The High Adjudicator left the estate as dusk settled. His boots struck the walkway, steady and sure. At the garden wall, he slowed. To his right, in the mist, a figure knelt among the dark beds, working without light.
Kaelreth's gaze passed over her, then returned. It lingered.
The Grand Seneschal, walking a step behind, noted the pause. His own eyes flicked to the garden, then back to his lord's profile. He said nothing. He filed away only one fact: the attention itself.
The banquet hall thrummed with false warmth. Silk whispered, crystal glittered. When Kaelreth entered, the air shifted.
"Valenor."
"High Adjudicator."
He acknowledged them with a nod. No more.
The steward materialized at his elbow. "They are ready, my lord."
When Kaelreth took the main seat, a subtle silence fell upon the head of the table.
The host, a man whose smiles were always a fraction too wide, lifted a carafe. The wine within was the color of a deep, old bruise.
"This," the host said, his voice pitched for the immediate company, "is from the southern slopes. A private reserve." He poured with ceremonial care, the liquid whispering into Kaelreth's goblet first. "The vines grow where the monastery's old charnel house once stood. They say the soil remembers."
He finished pouring and set the carafe down with a soft, definitive click. His eyes lingered on the dark surface of the wine in Kaelreth's cup, then lifted to meet the High Adjudicator's impassive gaze.
"A vintage of singular character," the host added, the words hanging in the air like an unasked question.
Kaelreth looked at the offering. He did not touch the stem. He simply acknowledged it with a slight tilt of his chin, his expression giving nothing away—neither interest nor disdain. It was a void of a response, making the host's elaborate presentation seem suddenly superfluous.
The wine, rich and ominous, remained untouched before Kaelreth, a silent testament to an offering made and a judgment withheld.
Then, the far doors opened. Silence pooled, then broke into murmurs.
She entered alone.
The fox-blooded courtesan moved like water through reeds. Her ears, high and alert, caught the lamplight. A single, lush tail swayed in a slow, deliberate rhythm behind her. She wore crimson, the silk hinting at every curve. She stopped before the host and bowed, her eyes never leaving his.
"You sent for me, my lord."
"We sent for the best," the host replied, his smile broad.
Her lips curved. "Then your search is over."
A nobleman nearby leaned to his companion. "They say she can smell desire. Like a true fox."
His companion chuckled into his cup. "I'd wager she can do more than smell it."
The host turned to Kaelreth, gesturing expansively. "High Adjudicator. A gift. A testament to our… mutual understanding." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "She is unparalleled. Will you accept?"
All eyes turned to Kaelreth. The fox-woman turned with them, finally meeting his gaze fully. There was no meekness in her look, only a calm, assessing heat.
Kaelreth regarded her. The hall held its breath.
"I will," he said.
A sigh, of envy or relief, rippled through the crowd.
The private chamber was cold stone and low light. The door closed, sealing them in silence.
She did not wait. Her fingers went to the clasp at her shoulder. The crimson silk sighed to the floor. She stood before him, unashamed, the lines of her body a stark poem in the gloom.
"They talk of you in the city," she said, her voice a low hum. She stepped closer. "The stone-hearted judge." Her hand rose, not touching him, tracing the air near the fastenings of his cloak. "Stone can be warmed."
He said nothing, watching her with detached focus.
She knelt, her movements fluid. Her hands were deft, certain.
"The host paid a great deal," she murmured, her work not pausing. "He wishes to buy your favor. He thinks this," her gaze flicked up, holding his, "is the currency you understand."
"And what do you think?" Kaelreth asked, his first words to her.
His voice was flat.
A sharp, genuine smile touched her lips.
"I think you understand value. And cost." Her tail brushed the floor with a soft whisper. "I am here to prove my value is worth the cost of your… attention."
Her movements were a language in themselves, each gesture articulate and assured. She did not merely attend—she presented, with the focused intensity of an artisan unveiling a masterpiece.
A shift of her hips was both invitation and statement; the trail of her fingers along the edge of his tunic was a promise rendered in touch.
She met his eyes whenever possible, her gaze holding a challenge that was also an offering: See what I am. See what I can do. Choose me.
Kaelreth watched.
He did not participate, but observed—the way a scholar might observe a complex rite. His expression remained untouched, a mask of polished stone, yet his eyes were active, tracking the sweep of her tail, the controlled arch of her back, the precise economy of her efforts.
He noted the skill, the absence of waste, the heat that was less an emotion and more a tool expertly wielded. He saw the ambition burning behind her professionalism, the hope she could not fully conceal.
When it was over, she withdrew with a grace that seemed effortless, though a fine sheen glistened at her temples.
She drew a steadying breath, the only sign of her exertion, before reaching for her discarded robe. She did not rush to cover herself; instead, she let the moment stretch, a final, silent display before the fabric whispered back into place.
"By your blessing, my lord?" Her voice was lower now, husked with use, but the words were clear. They were not merely ritual. They were a question wrapped in ceremony: Was it enough?
He took a moment to answer, his gaze sweeping over her once more, from the careful points of her ears to the now-still tip of her tail. He was categorizing, filing the experience away.
"Adequate," he stated.
The single word landed in the quiet room like a verdict. It was not cruel. It was factual. It was the review given to a satisfactory vintage at a state dinner—acknowledged, consumed, and ultimately, forgettable.
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind her eyes—not disappointment, but a sharp, cold understanding. Her polished confidence solidified into something harder. She had offered a feast; he had acknowledged a sip. Her smile returned, thinner, edged with a new ruthlessness.
"Adequate," she echoed, the word a polished pebble in her mouth. "I shall remember it."
She turned and left, the door closing softly behind her.
The transaction was complete.
He had accepted the offered service, as one accepts a glass of wine at a banquet.
He had tasted it, found it sufficient, and moved on.
For him, it was nothing more.
For her, the hope of being chosen, of being taken, had been a tangible thing in the room.
Now, it was gone, dispelled by two syllables, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the echo of a lesson learned.