Three sharp knocks followed by a hard thud at the door made Milas Treelane’s hand jerk, spilling hot wax across the letter T and tea leaf emblem of his signet ring. He muttered a curse under his breath. Only one person knocked that way, and it could only mean one thing at this late hour.

“Perfect timing, as always,” Milas whispered, wiping away the excess wax. The candle’s flame wavered as he rose, casting elongated shadows across the room filled with ledgers and correspondence—evidence of the Merchant Guild’s vast reach. His short, stout frame ached from sitting too long as he shuffled across the polished oak floor, floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet.

He pushed aside the small bronze shutter covering the peephole and peered through. Outside stood a tall figure, face half-hidden by the night.

“Riasean,” he grunted, lifting the iron latch. The round door swung inward with a soft groan. “You’ve returned quickly.”

The messenger ducked his head to enter. Lamplight caught on the worn leather of his jerkin, the mud-splattered riding boots, and most notably, the angular, high cheekbones and pointed ears that marked his elven heritage. His movements were fluid despite apparent fatigue, reminiscent of a predator conserving energy.

“Well, as you say, time is money.” Riasean’s voice was melodic yet edged with something colder. His eyes darted around the room, lingering momentarily on the bookcase before settling back on Milas.

Milas quickly closed the door, sliding the bolt home with a solid click that echoed in the quiet room. “True enough. Were there… complications?”

“No more than expected with such a delicate task,” Riasean replied, running a hand through his windswept hair. “Your old friend had much to say when he received your note.”

A bitter smile tugged at Milas’s lips. “I imagine he did.”

He led Riasean down a narrow hallway into a kitchen warmed by a crackling hearth. The smell of bread and herbs hung in the air, mingling with woodsmoke. Copper pots gleamed in the firelight, reflecting distorted images of the two figures.

“Sit. Rest.” Milas gestured to a stool. “You must be hungry after your journey.”

“Tea would suffice,” Riasean replied, perching on the edge of the stool like a man unaccustomed to comfort. His fingers, long and nimble, tapped a silent rhythm against his thigh as his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Milas busied himself with the kettle, hanging it over the fire before cutting a thick slice of bread. The knife scraped against the cutting board, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

“So,” Milas finally said, spreading butter on his bread with deliberate slowness, “how did Arnor react after reading my message?”

Riasean’s lips thinned. “Do you really want the details?”

Milas paused, knife hovering. “No… not particularly.” He tilted his head. “But did he try to bargain his way out? Offer you more than I paid?”

“He talked. Extensively.” Riasean’s voice was neutral and professional. “Merchants always believe they can negotiate their way out of anything, don’t they?”

“It’s in our nature,” Milas admitted. He fixed Riasean with a sudden, intense stare. “You did complete what I asked, didn’t you?”

“In fifteen years, I’ve never left a contract unfulfilled.” There was pride in Riasean’s voice, and something else—a code that hung unspoken between them. “No exceptions.”

“Good answer.” Milas nodded approvingly. “Then you have it?”

Riasean reached into his jerkin and withdrew a small object. The metal caught the firelight as it rolled across the table toward Milas—a signet ring bearing the letter F surrounded by delicately engraved tea leaves.

Milas’s eyes widened with undisguised satisfaction as he cradled the ring. The metal still held warmth, as though reluctant to part with its previous owner. “Oh yes,” he breathed. “This is Arnor’s ring.” His thumb traced the emblem. “Three generations of the cooperation between tea merchants ended because he couldn’t honor our agreement.”

The kettle began to whistle, a high, thin sound that pierced the tension.

“That deal was more than business,” Milas continued as Riasean rose to attend to the tea. “My father spent decades building relationships with those eastern suppliers. Arnor knew exactly what he was doing when he undercut me. He wanted to ruin me, drive me out of the guild entirely.”

“Merchant rivalries,” Riasean murmured, pouring steaming water into two clay cups. The aromatic steam rose between them. “They rarely end well.”

“He chose his path,” Milas said firmly, watching Riasean return to his seat. “I trust this concludes our arrangement?”

Riasean nodded. “I assume you want to settle accounts now? I must reach Tenoach by tomorrow evening. I have another… delivery to make tonight.”

“Another job already?” Milas raised an eyebrow. “That was quick.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Riasean’s face. “Sometimes opportunities simply present themselves at the right moment.”

“Might I ask who’s hired you this time?” Milas inquired, his merchant’s curiosity piqued.

“Professional courtesy prevents me from sharing such information,” Riasean replied smoothly. “As you well understand, reputation is everything in our respective trades.”

“Indeed it is,” Milas agreed. “I’ll fetch your payment.”

He left the kitchen, glancing backward to ensure Riasean remained seated. In his sitting room, Milas approached the bookshelf and removed a leather-bound volume titled “Medicinal Herbs. ” The volume revealed a hidden alcove containing a small pouch, and the coins inside clinked softly as he lifted the pouch.

For a brief moment, he pictured Arnor’s face in his final moments—had he realized what was happening? Had he understood the price of his betrayal? The thought brought a grim satisfaction. The guild would soon learn what happened to those who crossed Milas Treelane.

When he returned to the kitchen, Riasean was pouring tea into the cups, the steam rising in lazy spirals.

“The water was ready,” Riasean explained, pushing one cup toward Milas as he returned to his seat.

Milas dropped the coin pouch on the table. The soft thud of gold was a familiar, comforting sound. “Your payment, as agreed.”

Riasean made no move toward the coins. Instead, he lifted his cup in a small toast. “To completed contracts.”

Milas looked into his cup, noticing the green leaves unfurling in the hot water. “Ah, camellia leaves. My favorite. Where did you get this?”

“Your larder had quite bit of it,” Riasean replied, watching Milas over the rim of his cup.

Milas swirled the tea, inhaling deeply. A familiar fragrance rose with the steam but underneath lay a subtle note that made him pause. “The aroma seems… different than I remember.”

Riasean sipped from his cup, eyes never leaving Milas’s face. “Different suppliers often lead to subtle variations in flavor.”

“I suppose,” Milas conceded, taking a cautious sip. The bitter-sweet taste was as expected, but beneath it lay an unmistakable flavor. “There’s an almond note to this blend.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Riasean replied. “But I confess I’m not much of a tea connoisseur.”

Milas took another, deeper swallow, the almond taste flooding his mouth. A sudden lightheadedness swept over him, and the room seemed to shift and tilt. “Where exactly did you get this tea?”

“I didn’t say,” Riasean replied, setting down his cup. Milas noticed with growing alarm that Riasean’s cup contained only clear water. “But if you’re curious, Arnor provided it. His final contribution to your collection, you might say.”

The room spun violently now. Milas slumped forward, his stomach clenching in knots. A cold realization dawned as sweat beaded on his forehead. “Didn’t you say you had another job?”

A thin smile crossed Riasean’s face. “Yes. I’ve just completed it.”

“What do you mean?” Milas gasped, struggling to stay upright. “You haven’t left yet.”

“Didn’t need to,” Riasean replied calmly, reaching forward to pluck Arnor’s signet ring from Milas’s weakening grasp. “The tea leaves send their regards. Arnor thought it fitting—poetic even—though he won’t be around to appreciate the irony.”

As darkness closed in around Milas’s vision, his gaze fell upon Riasean’s hand. There, gleaming in the firelight, was a signet ring he hadn’t noticed before—a letter T surrounded by tea leaves.

“You should know,” Riasean said softly, his voice fading in Milas’s ears. “Arnor hired me before I completed your contract. It was fortunate timing for me, as I was able to accept both commissions.” He pocketed both rings. “This is a rare opportunity to maintain my perfect record of contract fulfillment.”

Milas tried to speak, but his tongue felt swollen, useless. The last thing he saw was Riasean’s impassive face, watching him with the detached interest of a consummate professional.

---

The sun rose over the forest of the Mossy Grimoire, painting the mist with gold and amber. Dunharraw lay twenty miles behind Riasean, and Tenoach waited fifty miles ahead. The steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves matched his heartbeat—unhurried, methodical.

He rode alone with his thoughts and his intact reputation. Merchant rivalries were lucrative business for someone in his profession. Two contracts fulfilled in a single night—efficiency that would only enhance his standing among potential clients.

Riasean’s fingers brushed the two signet rings hanging from a leather cord around his neck. The T and the F caught the morning light—small mementos from another successful delivery.

Behind him, the story of two merchants who destroyed each other over a tea deal would soon spread through guild halls and taverns. Such tales were good for business. In his saddlebag, sealed letters waited to be delivered—final messages from men who never realized they were clients and targets.

Professional courtesy, after all, extended beyond death. In Riasean’s line of work, reputation was indeed everything.