Amo tore down a hallway of red and purple cloth, wide-eyed and gasping for breath. As they ran, the counting voice came closer, and then was suddenly beside them – Start again. 1 and 43. 44 and 92. 136 and 27. 174 and un-89. No, no, why don’t you practice your 9s? – but Amo kept running and it faded behind them. They burst through a red curtain, almost tearing it from the wall as they tumbled into a rack of fine clothes, catching their panicked arms on bright sleeves and sweeping sashes. Amo fell and tumbled, detangling themself from a pair of elegant dresses and realizing they were in the main room of the boutique.

Climbing back to their feet, they looked to the floor and saw a stain of red. Yes, this was where they’d died. That masked woman, the dancer! Norgash. Amo had followed her in, said her name, and she’d danced so happily around them. As if thrilled to be recognized. And then, the knife, the falling, the blood.

No, get over it. It wasn’t the first time Amo had lain with death. They could be traumatized later.

Amo ran to the door, reached for the handle, closed their hand around it. Then they shouted and jumped back, looking at their hand. Burned. How? They looked closer at the door handle, a curved brass latch, simple. But it simmered with heat as though it sat in a kiln. Amo carefully touched the heavy wooden door, finding it painfully hot to the touch. They huffed, “Fire?” and looked to the windows on either side of the door. There was perfect darkness, showing no light beyond, no sign of fire. No sign of anything.

Going to one window, Amo saw nothing. There was no city. There was no world. It was as though the window looked out on a perfectly black depth. As Amo stared, they thought they could make out narrow, shivering things. Trees in the wind? It was so dark it was difficult to tell. Amo touched the window. This was hot to the touch as well.

Amo returned to the door. They stared. They tried to force themself to open it, to confront whatever lay beyond. But their instincts screamed fear at them. No, no, this is a door to death!

Pivoting, Amo looked back the way they’d come, the hallway revealed by the tumble of curtain and clothing. They couldn’t see the armored body from where they were: Phaeduin’s body, somehow. Amo touched their chest, cringed as their fingers brushed a burn. A bright red burn, skin puffing up in the shape of a hand. Death lived in this building. Death to blades, death to a head-eating darkness, death to impossible fire. Unpredictable death. But there must be rules.

Amo returned to the hallway and stopped next to the sound of the counting voice. 564 and 73. 637 and… 821, hah! Amo hesitated only briefly before pushing aside red cloth, revealing a hidden hallway, and walking into the dark. 1458 and un-947. 511 and un-15. They found a small room with three narrow cages lit by dim yellow light. Inside one cage, a prone form lay beside a dark man – Amo recognized this man from when they’d been laid out dying, a man like a being whose clothes and skin and hair were all crafted of blackest onyx, whose broad hat concealed their face – who spoke as though to the form beside them. 497 and 97. 685, no! Don’t start on 7s if you can’t match 7s.

When he saw that Amo had stepped into the room, the counting stopped. The dark man stood. His hat tipped back far enough that Amo could see a deep scowl on his dark lips. “Well, look who’s up and about. And look at your chest! Your friend really stuck his foot in it, didn’t he? Or his hand, from the look of things.”

Frowning hard, Amo asked, “Who are you?”

“Sethian Skin, proprietor of the boutique Maniaque.” He spoke with a mix of boredom and distaste. Still, he spread his arms, affecting pride. “Renowned through the north for making the most beautiful – and softest – clothes my customers could ever hope to see.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“I’m famous among an exclusive group of only the highest echelon of society. You’ve no reason to hear about me. Listen.” He dropped his arms. “I can tell you’re nervous. Relax.”

“The door.” Amo gestured vaguely to the hall. “The way out. Is it safe?”

“Absolutely not, my friend. That door leads you only to doom, right now. Ask again later. In the meantime, I’d request that you find your friend and get the key off him. Let me out of this cage.”

“Not…” Amo looked down at the form laying in the corner. It wore Amo’s own clothes, complete with a knife tear in the back. Amo flinched at the sight. “What are you doing with…?”

“That,” Sethian Skin gestured with a dark hand. “I was repairing your clothes for you, of course! Locked here for safe keeping while you rest up. Now, listen, let me out. I need you to do that. Your friend-”

“No.” Amo shook their head. “You helped that woman knife me.”

“Norgash and I had a monumental argument about that, actually. And, in fact, I saved your life. You’re welcome.” Sethian Skin sighed. “I see you need further assurance, though. Well, sad stranger, so worried and lost and afraid, let me give you guidance. Just open the door.”

“My friend is dead. Why are people dying here?”

“Because they don’t know the rules.”

Rules. Magic had rules. Its practitioners, be they sorcerers or monsters, were bound by rules. “And what are your rules?”

“Those of a businessman, obviously. Deals and contracts. The Maniaque has its own rules, though.”

Amo took a deep breath. Most southlanders didn’t know the ways of magic, but Amo had studied them extensively for some time. Deal-making was the most common kind of binding employed by practitioners of older arts. “You’re a Darkweaver.”

“Young one, I am the Darkweaver. Mentor and originator of the art. Now, about this door.”

“I’m sure you know that verbal contracts are considered binding in most of the north?”

“When you are in the Maniaque, you are not in the northlands. But I do consider verbal contracts to be binding, if that’s your worry.” Sethian Skin set a hand to the generous black lace spilling down the front of his vest. “My art and business require that I be a man of my word, trustworthy, truthful, forthright, and humble. Every word I utter is my bond and guarantee.”

“Fine, then.” Amo narrowed their eyes. “I’ll get that key and let you out, if you promise to ensure that I make it out of this place alive. And without a curse on my head.”

Sethian Skin smiled. “Oh, such generosity gives me hope for the future. We’ve a deal. Go.”