Reivan had long since accepted that the universe had a personal vendetta against him. It wasn’t enough that he had somehow turned from a simple merchant into an unwilling power broker; now, his so-called allies were starting to make demands. Worse, Sylpkx had vanished without a word, and that was always a bad sign.

  He sat in his study, sipping tea that was only slightly poisoned—his taste testers assured him it was nothing fatal—while staring at the latest set of letters from noble houses who either wanted him dead, indebted, or deeply entangled in their affairs. The one in front of him was from Lady Isolde, a noblewoman with the kind of reputation that made lesser men break into cold sweats.

  “I assume I’m about to be offered something terrible disguised as a generous opportunity,” he muttered to Garm, who was lounging against the wall like an overpaid guard dog.

  Garm grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Reivan exhaled and read the letter again. Isolde wanted his support against Count Estienne. In return, she’d shield him from the worst of court politics. He tapped his fingers against the table, considering the implications. On the one hand, Estienne was already a problem. On the other, being ‘shielded’ by Isolde meant owing her something, and he really, really hated owing people.

  Before he could make up his mind, Sylpkx still hadn’t returned, and that was starting to gnaw at him. She never disappeared without warning—not unless she had a reason.

  “Garm, did she tell you anything before leaving?”

  “Nah. Just took her sword and vanished like a ghost. Said she had to check something.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret this?”

  Garm shrugged. “Because you have common sense?”

  Reivan pinched the bridge of his nose. First, he had to deal with Isolde. Then, he had to figure out where his trusted assassin-turned-bodyguard had gone before she did something completely irreversible. Which, knowing Sylpkx, was very, very likely.

  Lady Isolde’s estate was as extravagant as expected. The woman had a taste for dramatic architecture, and Reivan was certain half the reason she hosted meetings in her personal garden was to remind visitors that she could afford imported flowers from six different continents.

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  She was already waiting when he arrived, seated elegantly under a pavilion with tea prepared. Isolde was the kind of noblewoman who could kill someone with a smile and convince the court it had been a tragic accident.

  “Sir Reivan,” she greeted, voice smooth. “I was beginning to think you’d avoid this meeting.”

  “Oh, trust me, I tried,” he said, taking a seat. “But unfortunately, curiosity got the better of me.”

  She smirked. “A dangerous trait. I assume you’ve read my proposal.”

  “I have. And I have some questions.”

  “Of course.”

  Reivan leaned back slightly. “Why me? If you’re moving against Estienne, there are more… traditional allies you could call on.”

  Isolde took a slow sip of her tea before answering. “Because traditional allies are predictable. I need someone who understands leverage, not just politics.”

  “So, you need me to play dirty.”

  “Would you prefer I call it ‘efficient’?”

  Reivan exhaled. “You want my support in taking him down. What exactly do I get out of this?”

  She smiled. “Protection.”

  He laughed. “Lady Isolde, with all due respect, the court is a snake pit. Being shielded by one faction just means the other factions sharpen their knives.”

  “And yet, you continue to play the game.”

  He met her gaze. “Not by choice.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re sharper than most men in court, Reivan. That’s why I’m offering this. Estienne sees you as an obstacle, not an ally. If you don’t take a side soon, he’ll ensure you don’t have the option.”

  He hated that she wasn’t wrong. But committing to this meant stepping deeper into noble conflicts, something he had tried to avoid. He had to think long-term.

  “I’ll consider it,” he said finally.

  “I expected no less.”

  By the time he returned to his estate, he had a new problem waiting. Sylpkx had returned—covered in dust, slightly bruised, and looking entirely too smug for his comfort.

  “I don’t like that look,” he said as soon as she walked in.

  She plopped into a chair, stealing the tea Garm had abandoned. “Good news and bad news.”

  “Start with the bad.”

  “I may have irritated some people in the underworld.”

  Reivan closed his eyes. “Sylpkx.”

  “Oh, come on, you’ll like the good news.”

  “Fine. What’s the good news?”

  “I found out who’s been pulling strings behind the mercenary groups trying to disrupt trade.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  She leaned forward, grin sharp. “Count Estienne.”

  Well. That changed things.

  He had been prepared to stall on Isolde’s offer, but if Estienne was actively working against him, neutrality was no longer an option. If he wanted to keep his trade empire intact, he had to strike first.

  He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I’m starting to think I should’ve just stayed a normal merchant.”

  Sylpkx snorted. “Please. You were never going to be normal.”

  Garm chuckled. “Besides, it’s fun watching you get dragged into messes.”

  Reivan sighed again. “Fun for you. A lifetime of headaches for me.”

  But, as much as he hated to admit it, it was time to play offense. If Estienne wanted a battle for control, Reivan would show him exactly why merchants made the best warlords.

  Even if he really, really didn’t want to.