Lucien's POVPower in Orario always came from one thing.
Not skill.
Not training.
Not even strength.
It came from sponsorship.
You didn't level up because you were talented. You leveled up because a god liked your face—or wanted to use your blade.
And I needed that kind of backing.
Not loyalty.
Just the paperwork.
A name on the record.
A room to sleep in.
An excuse to exist here without drawing the kind of attention that got people dragged into alleys and interrogated by the Guild.
But I couldn't just pick anyone.
Not a major god. Not someone with eyes on them. Definitely not someone with enough insight to sniff out how wrong I really was.
I needed someone overlooked.
Someone hungry.
And just smart enough to be useful.
But not smart enough to be dangerous.
The place I found him wasn't on any tourist map.
A side street behind a potion shop that barely kept its lights on. A half-collapsed building with a crooked sign painted in flaking gold leaf:
[Calamus Familia – Inquire Inside]
The paint was recent.
The desperation wasn't.
I stepped inside.
The place smelled like old wood, dust, and herbal tea someone had brewed three hours ago and forgotten about.
There was a desk. Two chairs. A cracked window.
And a god.
He looked... tired.
Not in the ancient sense.
In the retail-employee-on-hour-nine sense.
Hair unkempt. Robes loose. Fingers ink-stained. He wore thin-rimmed glasses and was trying to write something on a scroll that wouldn't stop curling at the edges.
He looked up when I entered.
"Are you with the Guild?" he asked, hopefully.
"No."
The hope faded instantly.
"Debt collector?"
"Not unless you're paying me."
"...A new adventurer, then?"
I gave him a half-smile.
"I'm in the market for a patron."
He blinked.
Straightened slightly.
Like a dog hearing food hit the floor.
"Are you... joking?" he asked.
"No."
"Why here?"
"You seem like someone who doesn't ask many questions."
He squinted.
Then shrugged.
"I used to be more selective," he said. "But now I'm just trying to fill space."
"What's your name?"
"Calamus," he said, gesturing vaguely to the fading sign above the door. "Minor god of written word, contractual memory, and mildly disappointing book sales."
Charming.
I could work with that.
He gestured to the chair across from his.
I sat.
He looked me over—eyes flicking to my boots, my posture, the slight scuff on my coat from the last world.
"You're not from around here," he said.
"I'm from everywhere."
"That's not how that works."
"Maybe not for you."
That earned a twitch of a smile.
A small one.
But it was a start.
He tapped a quill against his lip.
"I don't normally just hand out falna. Even desperate gods have standards."
"I'm not asking for charity," I said. "I'm offering a deal."
"Oh?"
"I work for you. I keep your name from fading off the board. I do jobs, build credit, fake a little momentum—long enough for you to look like you're building something."
"And in return?"
"You engrave me."
He raised an eyebrow. "And risk opening your status and seeing something that screams 'not from here'?"
I leaned forward.
Lowered my voice.
"You don't open it."
He blinked.
"That's... not how it works."
"Sure it is. You choose what you read. You choose what you say aloud. You mark what needs to be marked—and then you shut it.
He stared at me.
"You're asking me to blind myself."
"No," I said. "I'm asking you to trust that what you see will be worth not reporting."
A long pause.
Longer than I liked.
Then he leaned back.
And smiled.
"I'm going to regret this."
"Almost definitely."
"But," he said, "if you turn out to be more interesting than illegal—I want exclusive rights to your biography."
I chuckled. "Deal."
He stood.
Led me to a back room.
Unlit. Quiet.
Smelled of old parchment and sweat.
I laid down.
He pulled off the gloves.
And then—
He touched my back.
The falna began.
It felt like swallowing lightning with your spine.
Not pain.
Just exposure.
Like something inside me opened, and something else tried to see it.
And then I felt it:
The resistance.
The static.
The sensation of multiple worlds layering like overlapping transparencies.
It was too much.
But only for a second.
Then it passed.
He exhaled sharply.
"I... see you."
"No you don't," I said quickly.
And to his credit—
He nodded.
Wrote nothing.
Said nothing.
Sealed it.
Just like I asked.
When it was done, I stood, rolled my shoulders, and offered my hand.
He took it.
His grip was weak.
But his eyes were burning now.
"I just signed a deal with something I don't understand," he said.
I smiled.
"Welcome to relevance."