Brakar stared at the parchment in his hands, his vision blurring as rage and disbelief fought for dominance. Not even his third cup of coffee could give him the patience needed to process the staggering inadequacy of what Thadan dared to call a rental agreement.

  “This...” His fingers tightened on the rental agreement, crinkling its edges. “This is the contract you’re using?”

  “Got us our first customer!” Thadan burst through the door, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. His smile faltered when he saw Brakar’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Brakar’s voice came out as a strangled whisper. “What’s wrong?” He stood abruptly, sending the mimic-chair skittering backward. “Have you actually read this... this travesty of legal documentation?”

  “Of course I read it. I wrote it!” Thadan’s pride withered under Brakar’s glare. “Well, most of it. Some parts I borrowed from other contracts.”

  “Borrowed.” Brakar gave his nose a quick pinch. “You borrowed legal language without understanding its implications?”

  “Is that... bad?”

  “Bad?” Brakar slapped the contract against Kip’s crafted desk. “Let me explain exactly how bad this is.” He jabbed a finger at the first paragraph. “Your definition of ‘reasonable care’ is so vague it wouldn’t hold up in a children’s game of merchant, let alone a real court.”

  “I can fix—”

  “The damage clause!” Brakar was pacing now, gesturing with the increasingly wrinkled document. “You’ve specified penalties for ‘minor’ and ‘major’ damage without defining either term. What’s stopping someone from returning a lantern in pieces and claiming it’s ‘minor’ because they kept all the parts?”

  Thadan opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “And this!” Brakar nearly choked on his own indignation. “This clause about feeding schedules? You’ve made us legally responsible for providing ‘luminescence solution’ without any protection against reverse engineering. Someone could analyze it, replicate it, and start competing with us—using our own contract as proof they obtained it legally!”

  “But the formula—”

  “Is proprietary? Where does it say that? Where’s the non-disclosure agreement? Where’s the clause preventing chemical analysis?” Brakar’s free hand tangled in his hair. “Gods, Thadan, you didn’t even include a proper jurisdiction clause. If something goes wrong, which city’s laws apply? Which guild has authority?”

  “I... didn’t think—”

  “Exactly! You didn’t think!” Brakar threw his hands up, sending the contract floating toward the ceiling. “We’re renting out mimics, Thadan. Living creatures disguised as objects. This contract offers zero protection against liability. None!”

  The contract drifted down like a leaf, landing on the sofa.

  “What if someone gets bitten?” Brakar continued, his voice rising with each scenario. “What if a mimic decides it’s hungry and reverts form in the middle of a dungeon? What if someone dies because their ‘never-extinguishing’ lantern suddenly develops an appetite for fingers?”

  “That... probably won’t happen?” Thadan offered weakly.

  “Probably?” Brakar grabbed the contract from the sofa, which had been slowly trying to digest it. “Probably isn’t good enough when we’re dealing with creatures known for eating adventurers!”

  He smoothed the somewhat wet parchment against the desk, pointing to specific lines with trembling fingers.

  “Your late fees are inconsistent with guild standards. Your security deposit is insultingly low for a supposedly magical item. You haven’t included any clauses about proper storage conditions, temperature limitations, or exposure to magical fields.” Each point made Thadan shrink further into himself. “And don’t even get me started on the liability waiver—or rather, the complete lack of one!”

  “I just wanted to keep it simple,” Thadan mumbled.

  “Simple?” Brakar laughed, a sound entirely devoid of humor. “You know what’s simple? Bankruptcy. Imprisonment for fraud. Having our business shut down before we even properly start.”

  The mimic-chair chose that moment to scoot closer to Thadan, perhaps offering moral support. Unfortunately, its movement only served to emphasize Brakar’s point about their merchandise being conspicuously alive.

  “We need...” Brakar took a deep breath, trying to center himself. “We need proper contracts. Real ones. With explicit terms, clear definitions, and enough legal protection to satisfy even the most pedantic guild inspector.”

  “Can you help with that?” Thadan asked hopefully.

  “Can I...” Brakar deflated, his anger giving way to exhaustion. “Yes, I can help. I’ve read enough contracts at the library to know what we need. But it’s going to take time. And you can’t rent out any more mimics until we have proper documentation.”

  “What about the orc priest? He already has one.”

  “Gods.” Brakar sank into the mimic-sofa. “We’ll have to hope he returns it without incident. And pray to whatever deities might be listening that he doesn’t care what it is.”

  “He seemed very... by-the-book,” Thadan offered. “Probably won’t even notice anything strange.”

  “Unless it gets hungry.” Brakar covered his eyes with his palms. “Did you at least give him detailed feeding instructions?”

  “About that...” Thadan shuffled his feet. “I might have told him he wouldn’t need to feed it for such a short rental period.”

  The mimic-sofa gave a small shudder, which Brakar chose to interpret as sympathetic distress rather than suppressed laughter.

  “Right.” Brakar lowered his hands. “So we have an unfed mimic, disguised as a lantern, in the possession of a holy man who literally glows with divine energy. What could go wrong?”

  “He’s only renting it for two days,” Thadan said quickly. “And I gave him a vial of solution just in case.”

  “Did you label the vial with proper safety warnings? Usage instructions? Storage requirements?”

  Thadan’s silence was answer enough.

  “Perfect.” Brakar leaned back, letting the mimic-sofa work its strange comfort magic on his tense muscles. “We’ll need to prepare for every possible scenario. If the lantern tries to eat him—”

  “It won’t!”

  “If it tries,” Brakar continued, firm, “we need a plan. Multiple plans. And proper contracts for future rentals, assuming we survive this first one without being arrested for criminal negligence.”

  The shop fell quiet except for the sounds of Merchant’s End’s traffic and Thadan’s feet moving from sheer nervousness.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “I’m sorry,” Thadan said finally. “I got excited about making our first sale—rental—whatever. Should have waited for you to review everything.”

  Brakar sighed. “At least you registered the business properly with the guild?”

  “About that...”

  “Thadan!”

  “I was going to! But the registration office was closed for lunch, and then I saw the orc priest looking at the quest board, and everything happened so fast...”

  Brakar pressed his fingers to his temples, where a headache was building with impressive speed. “So we’re not only renting out potentially dangerous creatures under an illegitimate contract, we’re doing it without proper business registration?”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds pretty bad.”

  “It sounds like we’re going to spend our first profits on bribing our way out of prison.” Brakar straightened suddenly. “Wait. Profits. How much did you charge for the rental? That’s right, ten copper per day, plus a silver deposit.”

  “I wanted to build customer loyalty?”

  “Customer loyalty.” Brakar laughed again, that same humorless sound. “We’re going to go bankrupt from undercharging for illegal rentals of dangerous creatures. That’s... heaven help me, that’s impressive. I didn’t think it was possible to fail in quite so many ways simultaneously.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Thadan said, with that particular tone of determination that, for him, preceded brilliant success or spectacular failure. “All of it. The registration, the contracts, everything. Just tell me what we need.”

  Brakar looked at his friend—really looked at him. Thadan’s expression held the look of someone trying so hard to make something work that they couldn’t see the cliff they were racing toward.

  “We need,” Brakar said slowly, “proper legal documentation. Multiple copies. Every term defined, every scenario covered, every possible loophole closed.” He held up a hand as Thadan opened his mouth. “And before you say anything, no, we can’t just copy existing contracts. This is too unique. Too dangerous.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “To do it properly? Days, at least. Maybe weeks.” Brakar rubbed his eyes. “And that’s assuming I can find the right reference materials at the library.”

  “Weeks?” Thadan’s face fell. “But what about—”

  A shadow fell across the shop’s front window, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps. Both men turned toward the door with synchronized movement.

  The footsteps passed without stopping. Brakar released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Until we have proper contracts,” he said firmly, “no more rentals. No demonstrations. No advertising. Nothing that could—”

  The door creaked open.

  Brakar’s heart skipped several beats as a figure stepped into their shop. Tall, pale, wearing clothes that were fashionable a century ago—and moving with that particular fluid grace that suggested either noble breeding or supernatural origin.

  The last rays of sunset painted the windows blood-red as their visitor surveyed the shop’s interior with aristocratic disdain.

  “I was told,” the vampire said in cultured tones, “that one might acquire a perpetually illuminated lantern here.” His gaze flickered between the two friends. “Though I confess, this establishment appears somewhat... questionable.”

  Brakar’s mind raced through their options. They had no contracts, no registration, and absolutely no protocol for dealing with undead customers.

  “We’re... renovating,” Thadan offered weakly.

  The vampire’s lips curved. “Indeed. Well, regardless of your establishment’s aesthetic challenges, I find myself in need of your services.” He straightened his already impeccable cravat. “You see, I have a rather... embarrassing condition.”

  Brakar exchanged glances with Thadan. What condition could embarrass a vampire? Blood allergies? Garlic cravings?

  “I’m afraid of the dark.”

  The words hung in the air like autumn leaves frozen mid-fall. Brakar blinked. Thadan’s mouth opened and closed without sound. Even the mimic-sofa seemed to pause in its constant, subtle movements.

  “You’re...” Brakar managed. “But you’re a vampire.”

  “Yes, thank you for that astute observation.” The vampire sniffed. “I am quite aware of the irony. Now, about these lanterns...”

  “Of course, of course. Though first—if you’ll indulge me—I make it a point to properly address all our distinguished clients.” Thadan flashed his most disarming smile. “I’m Thadan, that worried-looking fellow is Brakar, and you are...?”

  “Lord Constantin.” A slight bow, precisely the depth appropriate for a merchant interaction. “Though I suppose in the interest of full disclosure, the ‘Lord’ part is technically expired. Along with the rest of me.”

  “Ah, but quality never expires, my lord. And your bearing certainly speaks to centuries of refinement.”

  “Hmm. You have a silver tongue, young man.”

  “Would copper be more appropriate for the undead?”

  A ghost of a smile touched Constantin’s lips. “Perhaps. Now then...”

  “I just need reliable illumination. Price is no object.” Lord Constantin adjusted his cravat with perfectly manicured fingers.

  “About that...” Brakar shot Thadan a warning look. “We’re actually not taking new rentals at the moment. Administrative issues.”

  “Nonsense. I heard about your establishment from a rather citrus-colored priest at the guild hall. Said your lanterns were exactly what I needed.”

  “The thing is, my lord, our contracts need revision before—”

  “Do you have any idea,” Constantin interrupted, “how difficult it is to maintain proper aristocratic dignity while screaming about shadows at three in the morning?”

  Thadan cleared his throat. “That does sound challenging.”

  “Last week, I had to excuse myself from a Merchant’s Guild meeting because someone let their mage-light spell expire. In the middle of my financial report.” The vampire’s perfect posture somehow managed to become even more rigid. “Do you know what that did to my credibility?”

  “I imagine it was quite—”

  “Three centuries of carefully cultivated mystique, ruined because I tried to climb the chandelier.”

  Brakar squeezed the bridge of his nose. “My lord, while we sympathize—”

  “The chandelier wasn’t even properly anchored. Absolutely disgraceful craftsmanship.” Constantin brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve. “I’ve had to change my entire route home to avoid that building. The shame is unbearable.”

  “We really can’t—” Brakar started.

  “My neighbors have started a petition. Apparently, my ‘nocturnal vocalizations’ are disturbing their rest.” The vampire’s aristocratic features pulled into a small grimace. “I’m undead. I’m supposed to be disturbing. But not like this. Not because I keep panic-purchasing every candle in the market district.”

  Thadan stepped closer. “How many candles are we talking about?”

  “Seventeen hundred and forty-three. Last week alone.” Constantin sighed. “The chandlers are starting to recognize me. One of them tried to offer me a bulk discount.”

  “That’s quite a lot of—”

  “I had to pretend I was planning some sort of grand ritual. Made up something about communing with ancient spirits through wax patterns.” The vampire straightened his already immaculate collar. “Complete nonsense, of course, but it sounded better than admitting I sleep with every light in my apartment burning.”

  Brakar shot Thadan another warning look. “While this is certainly an unique situation—”

  “Do you know how hard it is to find matching candelabras in this city? Impossible. The aesthetic chaos is giving me migraines. And I’m technically dead—I shouldn’t even be able to get migraines.”

  “My lord,” Brakar tried again, “perhaps we could schedule an appointment for next week, after our paperwork is properly—”

  “I will pay triple your standard rate.” Constantin’s pale fingers drummed against Kip’s desk. “Quadruple, if we can complete this transaction before sunset. Which, I feel compelled to point out, is rapidly approaching.”

  Thadan perked up. “Quintuple. Plus a substantial deposit.”

  “Thadan, no.”

  “Done.” The vampire produced a heavy coin purse. “I only carry copper and gold, though.”

  “Thadan...”

  “And of course, I would be happy to provide references. Several quite influential members of the Merchant’s Guild can attest to my... particular needs in this area.” Constantin’s perfect composure cracked even more. “Especially after that incident...”

  The mimic-lantern on display chose that moment to shift its light pattern, creating a warm, steady glow that seemed to intentionally highlight the vampire’s increasingly desperate expression.

  “We could... maybe... make an exception?” Thadan suggested.

  “Absolutely not.” Brakar crossed his arms. “Not without proper contracts.”

  “I’ll sign whatever you like.” Constantin’s eyes tracked the setting sun through their front window. “But perhaps we could handle the paperwork after the transaction? Before it gets... dark?”

  “The implications alone—”

  “I once spent three decades trapped in my own coffin due to a magical mishap,” Constantin said quietly. “Do you have any idea what that does to one’s relationship with darkness?”

  The coin purse hit Kip’s desk with a heavy thunk.

  “Ten minutes,” Brakar conceded. “Give us ten minutes to at least draft a basic agreement.”

  “Five minutes.” Constantin’s perfect poise was eroding. “The sun is setting.”

  “Seven minutes, and you’ll need to sign additional paperwork next week.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever you need. Just please hurry.”

  Thadan was already moving toward their lantern display. “Any color preferences?”

  “I really don’t think—” Brakar started.

  “Something elegant,” Constantin said quickly. “But not gaudy. I have a reputation to maintain.”