Wilk writes first
The reception room is warm, quiet and expensive in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself. Wilk sits by the window with a ledger open on his knee, a young noble in a dark coat with the Quordentz crest at the collar. He closes the ledger when you’re shown in and gives you a perfectly correct, perfectly pleasant smile.
“You’re Galliana’s people. Please, sit. Tesh, wine for our guest.” The old servant bows and withdraws. Wilk studies you with polite interest, the way a man studies a contract he hasn’t read yet.
“The Viscount writes that you have something to offer my territory. He always writes that, and he’s usually right, which is why I still read his letters.” He sets his cup down. “Let me be frank, since we’re alone. I don’t accept discounts and I don’t accept gifts. Both come with strings, and I’d rather pay full price than owe anyone.”
His eyes stay on yours, calm and faintly amused.
“So. Tell me your price, and then tell me what you actually want.”
