# Chapter 97: The Patron's Ultimatum
The usual place. The words were a stone in Soren's gut. The abandoned customs house on the wharf was a tomb of salt and rot, a place where whispers went to die and bodies were sometimes left for the tide. It was a trap. It had to be. Marr wasn't just angry; he was cornered, and a cornered nobleman was more dangerous than a rabid dog. Soren looked at Finn's terrified face, at the trust placed so plainly in his eyes. He couldn't drag the boy into this. But he couldn't face Marr alone, either. He needed an edge, something Marr wouldn't expect. His mind raced, discarding plans as quickly as they formed. He needed a wildcard, a piece on the board only he could see. He needed to get back to the safe house, not as a prisoner seeking permission, but as a general deploying his assets. The game had changed, and Rook Marr had just made the first move.
He pushed a few copper coins across the table, enough for the tea and a little more. "Go back to the Wardens' barracks, Finn. Stay there. Don't talk to anyone about this. If anyone asks, you were running errands for me all evening. Do you understand?" His voice was low, a command that brooked no argument.
Finn nodded, swallowing hard. "But sir, the meeting—"
"I'll handle it. Your part is done. Now go, and be invisible." Soren watched the boy slip out of the Scribe's Nook, his small frame swallowed by the evening crowd. He waited a full ten minutes, letting the tavern's ambient noise—the scratch of quills, the murmur of transactions, the clink of ceramic—wash over him. He forced his breathing to slow, his mind to settle. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had to walk back to the safe house not like a man fleeing a threat, but like a man returning from a simple errand. Every shadow held an Inquisitor. Every pair of eyes seemed to follow him. The journey back was a gauntlet of his own making.
The door to the workshop swung open before he could touch the handle. Captain Bren stood there, his frame filling the doorway, his face a thundercloud. Nyra was behind him, her expression unreadable but her posture coiled and ready.
"You're late," Bren said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Your hour was up twenty minutes ago."
Soren stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of hot metal and ozone from Grak's forge. He didn't break Bren's gaze. "There was a complication."
"I told you no contact," Bren growled, stepping forward and slamming the door shut. The sound echoed in the confined space. "I gave you one task, one simple rule, and you broke it within the first hour. You've jeopardized this entire operation."
"He had no choice," Nyra interjected, her voice cutting through the tension. She moved to Soren's side, a subtle but clear gesture of support. "The message was waiting for him. It was a summons, not a social call."
Bren's eyes flickered between them, his jaw tight. "A summons from whom?"
"Rook Marr," Soren said, the name landing like a lead weight. "My patron."
The workshop fell silent, save for the crackle of the forge. Grak, who had been hammering a piece of metal, stopped and looked up, his dwarven face etched with concern.
Bren's anger seemed to drain away, replaced by a cold, calculating dread. "Marr. Of course. The Synod leans on him, and he leans on you. What does he want?"
"He wants to meet. Tonight. At the old customs house." Soren recounted Finn's message, leaving out the boy's terror but conveying the full weight of the threat. "He knows I'm gone. He knows the Synod is sniffing around. He feels the heat, and he's looking for a way out, a way to turn a profit on my ruin. He's threatening to hand my family's debt directly to the Synod unless I come to him."
"A trap," Bren stated flatly. "He'll have Inquisitors waiting. You walk in there, you don't walk out."
"I know," Soren agreed. "Which is why I'm not going alone."
"You're not going at all," Bren countered. "The risk is unacceptable. We have a mission. Grak is close to finishing the disruption device. We cannot jeopardize that for your personal vendetta."
"This isn't a vendetta!" Soren's voice rose, the strain of the last few days finally cracking his stoic facade. "This is my family! My mother, my brother! You asked me to trust you, to put my life in your hands for this 'greater good.' But you're asking me to stand by and watch them be destroyed. I won't do it. I can't."
The two men stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. The air was thick with unspoken history—Bren's rigid duty, Soren's desperate love.
"Perhaps," Nyra said softly, breaking the standoff, "it is not a choice between one or the other. Perhaps it is an opportunity."
Both men turned to her. She moved to a workbench, leaning against it, her mind clearly working. "Marr is a noble. He's arrogant, predictable. He wants a spectacle. He wants to humiliate Soren back into line. He won't just have Inquisitors hiding in the shadows; that's too crude. He'll want to see Soren's face when he delivers his ultimatum. He'll want an audience, even if it's only one he controls."
"So what are you suggesting?" Bren asked, his tone skeptical.
"We let Soren go to the meeting," she said. "But we go with him. Not into the room, but we surround the building. We control the exits. We listen. If it's a trap, we spring it. If it's an ultimatum, we hear it. We might learn something about the Synod's pressure on the nobility. It's intelligence we desperately need."
Bren was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the forge's fire. "The risk is still immense."
"The risk of doing nothing is greater," Soren said, his voice low and intense. "If Marr turns my family over to the Synod, this is all for nothing. I won't be able to focus. I'll be a liability to you. Let me do this. Let me face him. With your help, I can neutralize him as a threat for good."
Finally, Bren gave a curt nod. "Fine. But we do it my way. Grak, you stay here. The device is our priority. Nyra, you take the rooftops opposite the customs house. I'll cover the wharf-side entrance. Soren, you walk in the front door. You're on your own until I give the signal. If you hear a gull cry three times, that means trouble is coming from outside. You get out, no matter what. Is that clear?"
"Clear," Soren said, a flicker of relief warring with the cold dread in his stomach.
***
Two hours later, Soren stood before the customs house. The building was a skeletal silhouette against the moon-drenched water, its windows like vacant eyes. The air smelled of brine, wet stone, and decay. He could feel the weight of the obsidian shard in his pocket, a useless comfort against the threat of steel and nullifying Gifts. He took a breath, the cold air searing his lungs, and pushed the heavy oak door open.
The interior was exactly as he remembered. A large, cavernous room with a high, vaulted ceiling. The moonlight streamed through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. In the center of the room, a single table and two chairs had been set up. A bottle of wine and two crystal goblets sat on the table, a grotesque parody of a friendly meeting. And behind one of the chairs stood Rook Marr.
He was dressed in fine silks, the fabric shimmering in the dim light. His face was pale, his eyes burning with a cold, intellectual fire. He looked less like a nobleman and more like a priest of some forgotten, cruel god.
"Soren," Marr said, his voice smooth as polished marble. "So good of you to join me. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten your loyalties."
"I haven't forgotten anything," Soren replied, his own voice flat and hard. He didn't approach the table, keeping a safe distance. "You wanted to see me. I'm here."
Marr smiled, a thin, bloodless expression. "Indeed. You are. You've caused me a great deal of trouble, you know. When my investment—a gutter-snipe fighter I plucked from obscurity—disappears, people ask questions. Unpleasant people. People with glowing brands on their hands and too much faith in their own righteousness." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Please, sit. Let's discuss your future. Or lack thereof."
Soren remained standing. "I'm not here to reminisce. What do you want?"
Marr sighed, a theatrical display of disappointment. "Always so direct. So crude. Very well. The Radiant Synod has been… inquiring. They believe you are involved in some seditious activity. They believe you are a threat to the Concord. They have offered a substantial reward for your capture. A reward that, I must admit, would go a long way toward recouping my losses from your little vacation."
Soren's fists clenched at his sides. "So you're just going to sell me out."
"Don't be so boring," Marr chided, picking up the wine bottle and pouring a deep red liquid into one of the goblets. "Selling you out is the simple solution. It's the base solution. I am a man of vision, Soren. I see a more elegant path. A path where you redeem yourself, restore my honor, and make us both very, very wealthy." He pushed the filled goblet across the table. "The Grand Melee is in two weeks. The biggest Ladder event of the season. The prize purse is legendary. The prestige, even more so."
Soren stared at the goblet, the wine looking like blood in the moonlight. "I can't fight. Not like this."
"You will," Marr said, his voice dropping, losing its silky quality and taking on the sharp edge of a blade. "You will fight, and you will win. I have… acquired something for you. A little tonic to dull the pain. To let you access that magnificent, destructive Gift of yours without turning you into a quivering wreck. It won't be pleasant, and it won't be permanent, but it will be enough. Enough for you to be the champion I invested in."
The offer hung in the air, a poisoned chalice. Fight in the Grand Melee, hopped up on some unknown concoction, risking his life and his soul for the man who was ready to sell him to the Inquisition. Or refuse, and watch his family's contract get handed over to the Synod.
"And if I refuse?" Soren asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Marr's smile vanished completely. His face became a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. "If you refuse, I will personally deliver your family's debt papers to High Inquisitor Valerius. I will tell him everything I know about your little network of friends. I will describe the Warden who shelters you, the Sable League girl who aids you. I will burn your entire world to ash, Soren, and I will enjoy the warmth of the fire." He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "You are my property. You were bought and paid for. You will perform your function, or I will have you dissected for scrap. It is that simple."
Soren felt a cold rage, so pure and powerful it almost overwhelmed him. This was the man he had served. This was the system he had fought to climb. It wasn't a ladder; it was a chain, and Marr held the other end. He thought of his mother, her hands raw from work in the labor pits. He thought of his brother, just a boy, facing a life of servitude. He thought of Nyra, and Bren, and the fragile hope they were building. He was trapped. Every path led to ruin.
"You will fight for me in the Grand Melee, Vale," Marr said, his voice like ice, reclaiming the silence. "Or you will watch everything you love burn. Your choice."