CHAPTER 160: SEALING

Lor let the door close behind him, the soft thud sealing them in.

His pulse quickened, not from nerves but from the thrill of her challenge—the way she stood, unyielding, daring him to prove his words weren’t just smoke.

He stepped closer, keeping his movements slow, his eyes never leaving hers. "You’re sure?" he asked, his tone low, testing the ice. "Once we start, there’s no going back."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t waver. "I said start it."

The quiet inside Ameth’s cottage was a stark contrast to the market’s pulsing chaos—a stillness so deep it felt like the walls themselves held their breath.

The faint tick of cooling rafters punctuated the silence, mingling with the soft, herbal scent of dried bundles hanging overhead.

Light filtered through a small, warped-glass window, casting crooked stripes across the worn floorboards.

He gave Ameth a short nod, the motion clipped but purposeful. "Alright."

From his pocket, he drew a silver coin, glinting faintly in the dim light.

"Sit here," he said, gesturing to the patch of floor opposite him as he lowered himself cross-legged onto the boards.

His tone was casual, but his movements carried a quiet precision, like a ritual already begun.

Ameth didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward, the faint light catching the sleek arc of her blonde braid, and sank to the floor across from him, her skirt bunching around her thighs.

Her posture was ramrod straight, her icy blue eyes locked on his, unyielding, as if daring him to waste her time.

The simplicity of her work clothes only sharpened her presence—the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts pressing against the plain tunic, all the more striking for their lack of adornment.

Lor placed the coin between them, its faint gleam a focal point in the muted room. "We’ll put it here. In the center."

Her gaze flicked to the coin for a fleeting moment, then snapped back to his face, cold and expectant. "Start."

He nodded once, his eyes closing as he drew a slow, deliberate breath.

The casual ease drained from his face, replaced by a stillness that seemed to pull the air taut.

When his eyes opened again, they were transformed—irises glowing faintly, like molten silver shimmering beneath a quiet stream, the light not borrowed from the room but radiating from within.

The air between them thickened, as if the world itself paused to listen.

The coin trembled on the floor, a shiver of movement, then lifted, hovering in the still air.

It spun lazily, catching the window’s faint light, a small, silver star suspended between them.

When Lor spoke, his voice was no longer his own.

It rolled out deeper, resonant, layered with an ancient weight, as if something older, vaster, spoke through him. "What guidance do you seek, child?"

Ameth didn’t flinch.

No gasp, no widened eyes—her face remained a mask of cool composure, as unyielding as it had been in the market’s glare.

Her voice matched it, precise and unflinching.

"Guidance with my business. I want to know how to make better profits."

The glowing eyes held her, unblinking, the coin’s slow spin a silent metronome.

Lor’s body was still, unnaturally so, his breath barely stirring, his head tilting slightly as if attuned to a frequency she couldn’t hear.

The silence stretched, heavy, each second a weight pressing against the room’s fragile quiet.

Then his eyes slid shut.

The silver glow vanished, and the coin dropped with a dull clink, spinning tightly on the floorboards before collapsing flat.

Lor’s head dipped forward, shoulders curling as if a heavy mantle had settled over him.

He exhaled, rough and quiet, dragging a hand over his face, the gesture raw, like the ritual had carved something out of him.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were his own—ordinary, shadowed with a faint strain.

His voice carried a rasp, as if the words had to claw their way out.

"The Guiding Light..." He paused, taking a steadying breath, leaning back slightly, "...asks a price."

Ameth’s gaze didn’t waver, sharp as a blade’s edge. "What kind of price?"

Lor held her stare for a long, deliberate beat, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then, with a voice flat and unapologetic, he said, "A handjob."

Ameth didn’t flinch.

Didn’t frown.

Didn’t so much as twitch a brow.

Lor’s demand hung in the air, raw and brazen, but she took it with the cool detachment of someone checking off a mundane errand.

Her icy blue eyes held his, unyielding, as if the word "handjob" was just another item to be weighed, measured, and filed away.

Lor had braced for resistance—a sharp scoff, a flash of venom, anything he could twist to his advantage.

A flicker of hesitation and a blow towards him like Kiara, and he might’ve pushed the "Light’s will" further, coaxing her into shedding her tunic, maybe get her naked, under the pretense of ’punishment’.

But there was nothing.

No crack in her armor, no leverage to seize.

"Fine," she said, her voice flat, the same tone she’d use to haggle over cabbage in the market., "Give me a minute"

Without another word, she rose to her feet, her movements smooth, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

She turned and stepped into a small adjoining room, her silhouette vanishing beyond the threshold.

Lor stayed where he was, leaning back on his hands, the worn floorboards cool against his palms.

His eyes darted to the door, calculating—distance to the latch, the small window’s frame.

If this was a trap, if she decided his terms were a step too far and came back with a knife instead of compliance, he’d need to move fast.

Three steps to the door.

Watch the rug’s edge—don’t trip.

But she returned quicker than he’d anticipated, her presence cutting through his mental map like a cold wind.

Her blonde braid was gone, replaced by a high, tight ponytail that left her sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes fully exposed.