Chapter 4 The Midnight Customer
Sisily’s pov
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The door rattled in its frame, the wood groaning under the pressure of another slow hit.
"Don't do it, messy girl," Barnaby rasped from his brass perch. "Auntie said keep the lock on. You open that door, and we’re both going to end up as roasted snacks."
"Can you just be fucking quiet? I'm thinking!" I hissed back, clutching my throat.
My heart was racing. I looked at the deadbolt, then down at my own trembling hands. My raw palms were still stinging from the failed exam, and the Sigil of the Leash on my collarbone pulsed with a dull, sickening heat.
I needed out. I needed high-tier alchemical ingredients to break my father's tracking spell—rare ingredients that cost more gold than I’d ever seen in my life. And whoever was standing on the other side of that door was a black-market customer carrying heavy coin.
If I can make this sale, I can buy my freedom.
"Girl, I swear to the dark gods…" Barnaby started.
"Shut your damn beak, Bird!"
I grabbed the iron deadbolt, unlocked it with a loud CLICK, and threw the door wide open.
The fog outside didn't roll into the shop. The second the door opened, the damp, freezing mist literally evaporated, turning to steam before it could even cross the threshold.
A wave of suffocating heat blasted into my face, hot enough to make my eyes water and my skin flush.
Standing in the doorway was a man.
Holy shit.
He was towering—so tall his shoulders almost filled the entire wooden frame. He wore a high-collared coat made of black leather that fit his broad chest like armor. Dark, raven hair fell in elegant strands around a jawline so sharply cut it looked like it had been sculpted out of obsidian by a bitter god.
He was dangerously, lethal-level handsome. The kind of breathtaking beauty that made your stomach drop and your brain completely short-circuit.
I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my throat as I stared up at him.
Who the fuck is this fine devil? I thought, my mind racing as my eyes swept down his broad chest to his gloved hands.
His face was motionless, but he wasn't calm. Fine, glowing gold veins were pulsing violently beneath the pale skin of his jawline, crawling up toward his cheekbones like liquid fire. His eyes, a deep silver, flickered with sparks of unholy molten gold.
He moved into the shop. Every step he took radiated an unbearable pressure.
"Barnaby..." I whispered out of the side of my mouth, never taking my eyes off the stranger. "Who the hell is this fine devil?"
"A dead man walking if he doesn't get his drink, and us right along with him!" Barnaby squawked softly, ducking his head behind his wings. "That's High Lord Joran, you idiot!"
Joran.
The name hit my brain like a cold splash of water. High Lord Joran—a ruthless, lethal warlord from the Northern territories. The kind of powerful noble who executed people for looking at him wrong.
Joran didn't look at the books or Barnaby. His burning, gold-flecked eyes locked straight onto mine.
He reached into his heavy coat, pulled out a thick velvet pouch, and slammed it onto the glass counter.
The pouch hit the wood with a metallic CLANK, spilling a handful of glowing, uncut mana stones across the dark wood. More gold than I’d ever seen in one place.
"The Obsidian Brew," Joran said.
His voice was a deep, low rumble—smooth, dark, and utterly devoid of mercy. He didn't raise his voice.
"Now," he added.
My throat went dry as dust. Panic slammed into my chest, cold and sharp, instantly cutting through my shock.
The Obsidian Brew.
The exact potion Aunt Maeve had warned me about. The one currently sitting in the lower cellar cauldron, half-finished, unrefined, and completely useless.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fucking hell am I supposed to do now?
If I told this terrifying, ridiculously handsome warlord that the brew wasn't ready, he wouldn't just walk away. He was visibly vibrating with pain, those gold veins under his skin throbbing so hard I could hear the faint, sickening sizzle of his blood boiling beneath his flesh. If I turned him down, he’d rip this shop apart with his bare hands.
"Well?" Joran demanded, his voice dropping an octave. "Where is Maeve?"
"She... she had an urgent harvesting run," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady as I took a tiny step back behind the counter. I put on my best, most confident smile, trying to hide the fact that my knees were shaking inside my dress. "I'm her apprentice. Sisily."
Joran’s eyes narrowed. A low heat spiked in the air, so hot the paper pages of the books nearby started to curl and brown at the edges.
He didn't care about my name. He stepped around the edge of the counter, invading my space.
He was so tall I had to tilt my head all the way back just to look him in the eye. The scent of him washed over me. He smelled like a wildfire burning through a pine forest.
He leaned down, bringing his face inches from mine. I could see the tiny, golden sparks dancing inside his irises, catching the dark fringe of his eyelashes.
"Listen to me very carefully, little witch," Joran murmured, his breathing ragged, hot against the sensitive skin of my neck. "My patience is exhausted. My blood is burning, and I do not have the time to play games with a messy child."
His hand came up, his gloved fingers brushing past my ear to grip the edge of the wooden shelf behind my head, trapping me against the counter.
"You have ten seconds to hand it over," he whispered, his voice soft, "before I lose my temper and burn this entire building to ash."
