Silas Thorne, Master of the Golden Scale Guild, did not run. He glided.
He was a man who moved through the world like a viper moving through tall grass—smooth, silent, and always watching for the strike. As he ascended the marble staircase to the East Wing Terrace, he checked his reflection in a polished brass planter. His velvet doublet was immaculate. His smile was practiced. His mind was already calculating the potential cost of this meeting.
"The Young Master requires your ledger," the High Steward had said.
Silas didn't like undefined summons. The Astrea family was the pillar of the Empire's military might. When they called, you answered, but you also checked your pockets to make sure you hadn't accidentally committed treason.
He reached the terrace doors. He expected to find Julian von Astrea surrounded by tutors, or perhaps practicing fencing with a bored instructor.
Instead, he found the boy asleep.
Julian lay on a chaise lounge that cost more than Silas's first ship, one arm dangling off the side, a half-eaten grape balanced precariously on his chest. The silence was absolute, save for the gentle rustle of the wind in the star-lilies.
Silas cleared his throat—a sound perfectly calibrated to be audible but not startling.
"My Lord?"
Julian didn't move. "I'm not asleep, Silas. I am visually meditating on the concept of wasted potential."
"A worthy pursuit, My Lord," Silas said, bowing deep enough to show respect, but not so deep that he looked like a servant. "The Steward informed me of a sudden urgency. I assumed it involved a rare import? Perhaps a specific vintage of wine from the Elven Isles? I have a shipment docking tonight."
"Sit, Silas."
"You are too kind, My Lord, but I prefer to stand in the presence of—"
"Sit." Julian opened one eye. It was a terrifyingly clear shade of blue. "You make the view look cluttered."
Silas didn't argue. A smart merchant knows when to flatter and when to obey. He sat on the edge of a stone bench, smoothing his doublet, his posture perfect.
"How may the Golden Scale serve the House of Astrea today?" Silas asked, his voice like oiled silk. "If it is a loan you require, I must gently remind you that the Duke has placed a cap on your personal—"
"I don't need a loan. I need a partner."
Julian finally moved. He didn't sit up. He simply reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a stack of parchment. It wasn't the heavy, formal vellum used by the Court. It was lighter, crisp.
"I have a business proposal," Julian said, his voice lazy but his eyes sharp. "I provide the product. You provide the distribution. We split the profit."
Silas took the papers with both hands, treating them as if they were fragile. "A business, My Lord? The Astrea name is usually associated with... conquest. Not commerce."
"Consider this a conquest of the mind."
Silas adjusted his spectacles. He prepared himself to read a terrible poem. Or perhaps a childish essay on why teenagers should have more allowance. He practiced his 'impressed but regrettably unable to help' face.
He read the first line.
The castle did not sit on the mountain; it grew out of it, like a tumour of black stone. The air smelled of ozone, old blood, and silence.
Silas paused. The smile on his face didn't drop, but it froze. He read the next paragraph.
He does not speak, for his voice is the sound of a closing coffin. He offers you wine, but he does not drink. He offers you eternity, but he does not mention the price.
The merchant's eyes narrowed. He was a man who had traded in spices, slaves, and secrets. He knew value when he saw it. And this? This wasn't a child's diary. This was... different.
"It is... evocative," Silas said carefully, testing the waters. "The prose is unlike the Court style. It lacks the usual praise for the Sun."
"That's the point," Julian said, staring at the sky. "Act One, Silas. The Monster is a nightmare. He is the shadow in the corner of every room. He is the thing the Church tells you doesn't exist."
Silas turned the page. He wasn't skimming anymore. He was reading.
"But nightmares do not sell, My Lord," Silas countered gently. "The nobility prefers romance. They want knights in shining armor. They want to be reassured that the walls are high and the night is empty."
"Keep reading. Act Two."
Silas flipped the page.
She was the first thing in a thousand years that didn't scream when he looked at her. She touched his cold hand, and the Monster felt a crack in his armor.
Silas blinked. "He... falls in love?"
"He tries to be human," Julian's voice drifted over, soft and hypnotic. "Imagine it, Silas. A creature of infinite power, brought to his knees not by a sword, but by a woman's kindness. He stops killing. He walks in the sunlight, letting it burn his skin, just to bring her a rose. The noblewomen will weep, Silas. They will want to fix him."
Silas looked up. The calculations in his head were spinning. Romance. Danger. The Forbidden.
"It is a tragedy," Silas murmured. "The Church will call it heresy. A sympathetic monster?"
"And then," Julian continued, ignoring the warning, "The humans burn her alive."
Silas flinched. "I beg your pardon?"
"The villagers. The 'Good People' of the Light. They burn the castle while he is away. He returns to find her ashes." Julian turned his head, looking directly at the merchant. "And that is when the real horror begins. Because he doesn't just kill them, Silas. He breaks them. He returns to the darkness, not because he has to, but because he chooses to."
Silas sat in silence. He held the manuscript, his fingers trembling slightly. It was a masterclass in emotional manipulation. It hooked you with fear, reeled you in with love, and then gutted you with despair.
"It is... a mirror," Silas whispered, his silver tongue failing him for a moment. "The nobility... they feel trapped by the light. By the decorum. They will see themselves in the fire."
"Exactly." Julian extended a hand. "The contract, Silas."
Silas blinked, snapping back to reality. "My Lord, while the story is... potent... the risk is high. The censorship laws are strict. If the Inquisition traces this back to you—"
"They won't. Because we are using a pseudonym. Truck-kun."
"Truck... kun?"
"And," Julian added, pulling a small, silver object from his pocket, "We are using a new business model. Serialization. We don't sell the whole book. We sell it chapter by chapter. Weekly. We end every chapter on a cliffhanger. We make them beg for the next one."
Silas's eyes widened. He understood that immediately. Recurring revenue. Addictive consumption. It was evil. It was brilliant.
"I can provide the paper," Silas said, his voice gaining strength. "The distribution channels are already in place. But the profit margin... standard guild rates for a debut author are 50/50."
"70/30," Julian said. "My favor."
"My Lord," Silas chuckled, a polite, condescending sound. "You provide the words. I provide the ink, the press, the labor, the bribes for the censors, and the risk. 60/40 is generous."
"Silas," Julian said. He clicked the silver object in his hand. Click.
He held the object up. A pen. But not a quill. It was sleek, silver, and... it was writing upside down.
Julian pressed the pen to the contract held above his face. The ink flowed smooth, black, and perfect. No dip. No blot. No gravity.
Julian von Astrea.
Silas stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the bench.
"By the Saints!" Silas gasped, his composure shattering. "What is that?"
"This?" Julian twirled the pen. "Just a tool."
"It writes against the natural law!" Silas hissed, looking around frantically. "You are channeling ink without a well! That is a Sovereign-Class Artifact! Is it runic? Is it Magi-Tech?"
"It's a ballpoint, Silas. It means I don't have to sit up to sign your checks."
Julian tossed the contract onto the merchant's lap.
"70/30, Silas. Because if you don't take it, I'll take my Sovereign Artifact and this manuscript to the Silver-Wing Guild. I hear they're looking for a new flagship product."
Silas looked at the pen. He looked at the manuscript. He looked at the boy who was offering him a fortune while refusing to lift his head from a pillow.
He realized two things. First, Julian von Astrea was a terrifying genius. Second, if Silas walked away now, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
"70/30," Silas croaked, pulling out his own quill. It felt primitive and heavy in his hand. "But My Lord... I must insist on a clause. If the Church comes for us, I know nothing. I am merely a humble printer."
"Accepted," Julian mumbled, closing his eyes. "Now go. I have to write the scene where he finds her locket in the ashes. It needs to be heartbreaking. I want the Duchesses sobbing into their tea."
Silas signed the document, his hand shaking slightly. He bowed low—lower than he had when he arrived.
"As you command, My Lord. I shall have the first proofs ready by morning."
As Silas retreated down the stairs, clutching the manuscript like a holy relic, he realized he was sweating again.
Julian listened to the footsteps fade. He smiled.
Hook, line, and sinker.
He didn't know that miles away, deep in a crypt beneath the capital, an ancient pair of eyes snapped open—awakened by the sudden, inexplicable feeling, unaware that someone was writing his biography.