withoutrchant's office smelled faintly of spiced wine and paper ink—an intentional choice to give the illusion of refinement. Ledgers and scrolls were stacked along the back wall, each marked with tidy, obsessive handwriting.
The man behind the desk adjusted his gold-threaded cuffs when the visitor entered.
"You're late," the merchant said, keeping his voice firm. "I don't like delays."
The visitor's hood shadowed their face, though the faint outline of a smile tugged at their lips. "Some doors don't open unless you wait for the right knock."
The merchant leaned back in his chair, uneasy at the tone. "You said you had a proposal."
"Not a proposal. An opportunity," the visitor corrected. They stepped closer, their movements fluid—deliberate without being theatrical. "Your ships run east. Your caravans north. But the routes south? Untouched. Risky. Unstable. Yet… immensely profitable."
