Two days had passed since that quiet evening with the mysterious book. Now Sylas stood before the cracked mirror in their small bedroom, adjusting the collar of a suit that hung loose on his frame. Michael had pressed it on him that morning his own good suit, reserved for funerals and the occasional formal occasion they couldn't avoid.
The jacket drooped at his shoulders, sleeves extending just past his wrists. He tugged at the lapels, straightened the borrowed tie, and tried to smooth the wrinkles from the shirt beneath. The mirror showed him a nervous young man with anxious green eyes and unruly brown hair that refused to stay combed.
Sylas drew in a slow breath and slapped his cheeks lightly.
The change was immediate and unsettling. His shoulders straightened as if pulled by invisible strings. His jaw set with practiced authority. Even his eyes seemed to shift the anxious flicker replaced by steady, measured confidence. It was like watching someone else inhabit his reflection.
There it is, he thought, studying the transformed face staring back at him. The perfect little performance. How pathetic that I can just... switch it on like lighting a candle.
But he could. He'd learned to do it working for those eccentric nobles—the ones who paid him to translate their forbidden texts and ancient manuscripts. They'd taught him, without meaning to, that the right expression could open doors, that confidence was just another tool to be wielded. The mechanical precision of it made his skin crawl, even as he recognized its necessity.
This wasn't real confidence. It was constructed, assembled piece by piece like a costume. And yet it worked had to work because today's interview at Merchant & Sons Banking House demanded nothing less than perfect presentation.
"Don't forget your gloves!" Liora's voice drifted from the kitchen, warm with sisterly concern. "It's freezing out there!"
"I have them," he called back, his voice carrying that same measured tone he'd just watched himself practice. Even talking to his sister, the mask remained partially in place.
The banking house was exactly the kind of place where his linguistic skills might actually matter translating foreign correspondence, deciphering contracts written in archaic dialects. It was steady work with steady pay, enough to ease some of the weight from Michael's shoulders. The only reason he'd even secured the interview was his growing reputation in certain scholarly circles, recommendations from nobles who appreciated his talent for making sense of the incomprehensible.
He grabbed his coat and the leather satchel containing his references, then stepped out of the bedroom.
Liora looked up from packing her school lunch, her eyes widening as she took him in. "Sylas... it's like watching Father step out of that old portrait. The clothes help, but it's more than that." She tilted her head, studying him with uncomfortable accuracy. "You even hold yourself differently. Like you're someone else entirely."
The observation hit closer to home than he'd expected. "I suppose," he said carefully, "I am Father's son after all."
She grinned, but her eyes remained thoughtful. "Just remember you're still our Sylas underneath all that."
Am I? he wondered, but only nodded. "Always."
As he headed for the door, he caught his reflection one more time in the hallway's small mirror. The composed, confident young man looked back at him a stranger wearing his face. The worst part wasn't that the performance felt fake.
The worst part was how easily he could make it look real.
after a while.
Sylas stepped onto the cobblestone street, the morning chill cutting through his borrowed suit. The jacket hung loose on his frame, but he'd learned to carry himself in a way that made it seem intentional rather than ill-fitting. He adjusted his gloves and checked his pocket watch fifteen minutes early, just as he'd planned.
Merchant & Sons Banking House occupied a corner building of weathered limestone, its brass nameplate polished to a mirror shine. Through the tall windows, he could see clerks bent over ledgers, their movements efficient and precise. This was a place where punctuality, presentation, and propriety mattered as much as competence.
The doorman barely glanced at him as he entered, which Sylas took as a good sign—his appearance passed the first test. The interior smelled of leather-bound books and fresh ink, with morning light streaming across marble floors worn smooth by decades of business. A handful of clerks moved between desks, their voices kept to professional murmurs.
"Good morning," Sylas said to the receptionist, his voice carrying the measured tone he'd practiced. "I have an appointment with Mr. Harrow at nine o'clock. Sylas Deylen."
The woman middle-aged, with steel-gray hair pulled back severely consulted her appointment book. "Yes, Mr. Deylen. You're early. Please have a seat; Mr. Harrow is finishing with another candidate."
Another candidate. Of course. Sylas selected a chair near the window and observed his competition. A nervous man in his thirties kept adjusting his cufflinks. An older woman sat rigidly upright, her hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white. A younger fellow about his own age tapped his foot incessantly.
All of them performing confidence, Sylas noted, but letting the cracks show.
He folded his hands in his lap and let his practiced calm settle over him. Internally, his mind catalogued details the way the head clerk favored his left hand when reaching for files, the subtle hierarchy in how junior staff deferred to their seniors, the particular reverence with which they handled certain documents marked with red sealing wax.
"Mr. Thompson?" The receptionist called. The foot-tapper rose quickly, straightened his jacket, and disappeared down a hallway.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Thompson emerged looking deflated. The nervous man with the cufflinks was next, then the rigid woman. Each returned wearing expressions ranging from disappointment to barely contained anxiety.
"Mr. Deylen?"
Sylas rose smoothly and followed the receptionist down a narrow corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men in old-fashioned suits presumably the founding fathers of Merchant & Sons. At the end sat a modest office with "H. HARROW - SENIOR CLERK" painted on the door in gold letters.
Behind that same door, Henry Harrow rubbed his ink-stained fingers against his temples and stared at the mounting pile of untranslated correspondence on his desk. Three weeks since Pemberton's spectacular mistranslation had cost them the Ashford shipping contract, and the foreign letters kept arriving faster than he could process them alone. His Veyran was passable at best, his Sunspire barely functional, and the Selvaran dialects might as well have been ancient runes.
The morning had been a disaster. Thompson couldn't translate a simple Veyran shipping manifest without his hands shaking like autumn leaves. Caldwell had looked at Sunspire script and declared it "looks foreign enough" before making up words on the spot. Mrs. Whitmore had managed basic identification but faltered when pressed for specifics, reducing complex merchant negotiations to "they want more money." The fourth candidate had confused Veyran with Selvaran entirely, insisting a whale oil merchant was writing about fish sauce.
Fish sauce. Harrow was ready to handle the foreign correspondence himself, inadequate language skills be damned.
He was updating his notes when Mrs. Hartwell knocked. "Mr. Harrow? The last candidate is here. A Mr. Deylen."
Harrow suppressed a sigh. "Send him in."
Mr. Harrow was younger than Sylas had expected, perhaps forty, with thinning brown hair and ink stains on his fingers. His desk was meticulously organized except for one towering stack of correspondence that seemed to mock any attempt at order.
"Mr. Deylen, please sit." Harrow gestured to a chair while continuing to write. "I'll be with you momentarily."
Sylas waited patiently, studying the man while he worked. When Harrow didn't look up immediately, Sylas understood it was a deliberate test observing how candidates handled the wait. Some grew impatient, others nervous. He simply waited, calmly, as if he had all the time in the world.
Meanwhile, Harrow finished his notes about Caldwell's complete unsuitability for any position requiring literacy. When he finally raised his eyes, he was surprised to find himself studying a composed young man who wasn't fidgeting with his cuffs or adjusting his collar every few seconds.
The suit was obviously borrowed too large in the shoulders, sleeves a bit long but Mr. Deylen wore it with a confidence that made Harrow look twice. When their eyes met, Harrow found steady green eyes that didn't flinch or look away too quickly. The expression was attentive but not anxious, professional without being obsequious.
Interesting.
"Your letter of application mentions linguistic capabilities. Veyran, Sunspire, and..." Harrow consulted the paper, noting the careful penmanship, "...Ancient Auric?"
"Yes, sir. Additionally some Selvaran dialects and rudimentary knowledge of several archaic scripts."
The voice was measured, confident without being arrogant. No stammering, no hedging with 'I think' or 'perhaps.' Just clear, direct answers a refreshing change from the morning's disasters.
Harrow raised an eyebrow. "Archaic scripts?"
"I've done translation work for private collectors. Old Auric, some Gravenmark runes, occasionally texts from the Eastern Continent." Sylas kept his tone matter-of-fact, professional. No need to mention just how ancient some of those texts had been, or how the collectors had paid him to keep quiet about their more peculiar contents. "Precision is essential when dealing with historical documents. Collectors tend to be... particular about accuracy."
Private collectors. Harrow knew that could mean anything from legitimate scholars to eccentric nobles with questionable interests. But there was something in Mr. Deylen's eyes a flicker of knowledge that suggested he'd seen things most people hadn't. If the young man could handle demanding clients with exotic requirements...
"The position involves correspondence with our foreign clients," Harrow explained, watching for any sign of uncertainty. "Much of it routine shipping manifests, payment confirmations but occasionally more sensitive matters. The previous clerk made an error that cost us a significant account. A mistranslation in a contract clause."
"I see." Sylas nodded gravely. "Precision is essential in legal documents. Even a small error in meaning can have considerable consequences."
No visible reaction from Mr. Deylen. No nervous swallowing or widening of eyes. Just a grave nod and a response that showed he understood the implications.
Finally. Someone who understood what was at stake.
"Exactly." Harrow pulled out a sheet of paper covered in flowing Veyran script the same one that had reduced Thompson to stammering confusion. "This arrived yesterday from Fjordhaven. Can you tell me what it says?"
Sylas took the letter and scanned it methodically. His Veyran was solid, learned during long hours with a particular lord who collected occult manuscripts from the northern kingdoms. He read it thoroughly not the panicked skimming of the previous candidates, but the careful analysis of someone who actually understood the content.
"It's from Merchant Thorvald Eriksen in Fjordhaven. He's inquiring about delayed payment for a shipment of whale oil that arrived three weeks ago. He's being polite but firm mentions this is his second inquiry and requests acknowledgment within the week." Sylas looked up, meeting Harrow's gaze steadily. "There's also a subtle implication that future business relationships depend on prompt resolution."
Harrow felt his eyebrows rise. Not only had Mr. Deylen translated the content accurately, he'd picked up on the merchant's underlying tone the careful diplomacy that barely concealed growing irritation. None of the other candidates had even noticed the subtext.
"And this?" He produced another letter, this one in elegant Sunspire script the one that had completely baffled Caldwell.
Sylas read it through twice before responding, demonstrating the kind of careful consideration that banking required. "Merchant Zahra Al-Najjar is confirming receipt of payment but questioning the exchange rate calculation. She believes there's a discrepancy of approximately twelve gold crowns in the bank's favor and requests clarification."
"Twelve crowns, three silver," Harrow corrected automatically, then realized what he'd just witnessed. Not only had Mr. Deylen translated the complaint accurately, he'd calculated the disputed amount correctly. The previous candidates hadn't even realized numbers were involved.
They continued for several more minutes questions about handling confidential information, dealing with difficult clients, and maintaining accurate records. Sylas drew on his experience with demanding noble clients who expected both discretion and excellence, answering each with careful precision. With each response, Harrow found himself more impressed. This wasn't just linguistic capability this was the kind of thoughtful analysis that good banking required.
"The salary is two pounds per week to start," Harrow said finally. "Hours are eight to six, Monday through Saturday. Half-day Sunday for inventory if needed." He noted Mr. Deylen's professional nod of acknowledgment no haggling, no questions about advancement opportunities. "Why should I hire you instead of the other candidates?"
The question that had reduced Mrs. Whitmore to nervous babbling and made Thompson recite his personal virtues like a prayer. Sylas felt the familiar calculation begin what mask did this moment require? But underneath the performance, he found something genuine.
Mr. Deylen considered the question thoughtfully rather than rushing into a prepared speech.
"Because, sir, I understand that words matter. Not just their literal meaning, but their weight, their implications, the spaces between them." He met Harrow's gaze steadily. "I've learned that a single misunderstood phrase can destroy trust that took years to build. I won't let that happen to your clients."
Harrow felt something settle in his chest relief, perhaps. Or recognition. This young man understood what the others had missed: banking wasn't just about money. It was about trust, precision, the delicate dance of international commerce where every word carried weight.
"I believe you won't," Harrow said, making a note on the application. For the first time in three weeks, the pile of foreign correspondence didn't seem quite so daunting. "We'll send word by tomorrow evening. If successful, you'd start Monday next."
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Harrow." Sylas rose, extending his hand. The handshake was firm, professional, exactly the right duration.
As the door closed behind Mr. Deylen, Harrow looked down at his notes. Under 'Additional Comments' he'd written: Hire immediately.
Then, after a moment's consideration, he'd added This one actually knows what he's doing.
Walking back through the bank's main floor, Sylas allowed himself a small surge of cautious optimism. The interview had gone well better than well. For a few moments, the performance had felt almost natural, the mask fitting comfortably enough that he'd nearly forgotten he was wearing it.
Outside, the morning had warmed slightly, and the city was coming alive with the bustle of commerce. As he walked home through familiar streets, his thoughts inevitably drifted to the mysterious book waiting on his desk. Two pounds per week would be enough to help Michael, to ease the constant worry about rent and food.
And perhaps just perhaps enough to afford some unusual ingredients.
The thought sent an unexpected thrill through him, immediately followed by unease. He was getting ahead of himself. First, he needed to wait for Harrow's decision. Then he could consider what came next.
But as he turned onto his street, the memory of that strange sigil seemed to pulse behind his eyes, and he found himself walking just a little faster toward home.