Wulfram awoke to rays of sunlight peering through the dilapidated window shutters of his communal room. The ancient wooden frame of his bed began to creak as the tattooist carefully slipped out from the bedroom, careful not to wake Rum. But where was Erland? Wulfram pushed the thought away, grabbing his few belongings from the foyer, and stepping outside onto a patch of soft grass. The tattooist was a man of routine. Before sitting down for breakfast, he would first set time aside for tobacco, and before he sat down to smoke said tobacco, Wulfram would stretch. After riding for what felt like a full day in the smuggler’s wagon, each new position snapped bones into places Wulfram didn’t even know he had. The tattooist felt as his namesake – the myriad of tattoos adorning his upper body – heated quicker in the sun. Today was alright.

Sitting back, Wulfram reached into his tin of pipe tobacco. However, sifting through the tea-like leaves, the man’s fingers brushed against something that shouldn’t be there – paper. Upon closer inspection, it was a vox – a popular trinket sold in most general stores, which can store a person’s voice, and replay it later. Unraveling it, Wulfram’s stomach did a somersault once he realized it was Erland’s voice.

Wulfram!

Before you start cussing me out internally, just know I have a really good feeling about    this noble. If you’re hearing this, I’m ‘negotiating’ in the only brick house adjacent to the village gates, so bring you-know-what as soon as the message finishes. I know you’ve hidden it somewhere.

Hugs and kisses!

Also, do not, under any circumstances, let Rum hear this vox.

Before the note had even finished, Wulfram already started running, cursing Erland under his breath.

“Scum-sucking three-suited mongrel son of a whore…”

The brick house I was told to rendezvous in turned out to be the Lord’s very own villa. The various paraphernalia strung up around the walls were one sign, but the mob of ‘bodyguards’ stationed in and around the building were slightly more indicative. Also, the Lord of this entire region is sitting in front of me. I’m really hoping Wulfram didn’t decide to skip out on tobacco today.

“The Five Thousand is running low on funds, you say?”

Alright, he’s finally ready to test the waters a bit.

“I’m sure you can imagine, your Lordship, that even the most distinguished mercenary groups on the continent fall on hard times in the absence of war.” It’s difficult to strike this delicate balance between cordiality and bluntness, but so far, he doesn’t look displeased. “And so, the band decided to send small, elite teams for commissioning more… discrete services.”

This was the gambit. The Five Thousand are prolific enough that even Lords disconnected from the comings-and-goings of major cities and capitals have heard about them. Most nobles don’t find it difficult to believe we’re members. Most nobles also have proverbial pains in their sides they’d like taken care of. Unfortunately, the number of nobles who’re willing to hire us on good faith to take care of that pain in their side is basically nil. Ergo, this is the point where most smart Lords firmly refuse, maybe play up some faux outrage to look nice and honest, but I’m fishing for a dumb one.

“What kinds of magick is your team able to use, Mr. Erland?"

JACKPOT! He bit it!

My internal celebration is rudely interrupted by an iron grip clasping down on my shoulder. For a second, I think to ignore its vice clasp and continue buttering up the Lord, but as if in reaction to my thoughts, the grip tightens.

“Just a moment, your Lordship.”

It’s genuinely inspiring how well Wulfram is able to keep his face stoic. The tattoos on and around his face do a great job camouflaging the veins when they’re popping out, but a keen observer can tell from one look of his bloodshot eyes that–

“Are you out of your damn mind?!” He hissed.

“To be frank, I didn’t think this little maneuver would go so well. I’m glad to see you found my vox, though.”

Not even Wulfram could hide his disbelief after hearing what I said. Honestly, it’s degrading to act like such a spoiled kid, but for this to work I need him to think that I’ll get myself killed without help.

“What the hell happened to stable work?” His whisper got much sharper now. “We already managed to get three clients for tattoo removal yesterday, and you’re already bailing! Who even is this guy?!”

“The Lord of this backwater hick town, who else? And before you ask, he was the one who approached me.” I started patting Wulfram on the back, hopefully making our conversation look less serious to the noble. “Besides, your gig isn’t exactly producing repeat customers, now is it? I’m telling you, it’s only a matter of time before our faces start showing up on wanted posters here too, and the last thing we need is to get caught out with no money.”

Wulfram stood in silence, the muscles on his face contorting into a mixture of anger, worry, pity, and helplessness. I continued.

“Let’s run down our routine like usual.”

He needed just one more push.

“I’m telling you; we couldn’t have asked for a bigger sucker – he offered 7 golds up front!”

“Erland, even if we do this, something doesn’t feel right. Where does a Lord in the middle of nowhere get the cash to burn for this much muscle?”

“It’s called overcompensating, Wulfram – now give me the thing or all that muscle might move to block our only exit.”

Begrudgingly, the tattooist passed a single playing card into my furled palm.

“Is something the matter?” the Lord asked, trying his best to mask his annoyance.

“Not at all my Lord. Wulfram, the magus I told you about, just informed me that we received a supply of rations from The Five Thousand.” His expression eased up a little. “Our third member is making the necessary arrangements is all. As for your previous question…”

Out from the corner of my eye, I can see the tattooist hold back his grimace. This was the point of no return.

“…my team’s magick ace-in-the-hole is myself – the hole magus.”

The Lord’s poker face holds strong, but I can immediately see a few of his bodyguards react to my bluff, murmuring amongst one another. The next step will be giving it some credibility.

“My magick, however, has some caveats. As you know, nearly everyone has a clear dominium – the object they’re born able to manipulate with magick.”

I begin inconspicuously taking off one of my shoes, prompting Wulfram to brush his hand against my neck.

“In order to pull off any feat of magick, the magus must be able to visualize the process exactly, which is why almost no magus can summon their dominium from nothing. After all, it’s nigh-impossible to perfectly visualize the air turning into, say, a sword.”

I stretch my leg out to touch one of the Lord’s bodyguards, and as I do, a circle-shaped blotch of tattoo ink travels down my foot, and onto his limb.

“Unfortunately, for me to summon a hole from nothing, I’d need to know exactly what I’m removing as a result, which isn’t very feasible.”

Finally, it was time to take the playing card out. I show it off to the Lord and his muscle, emphasizing the small hole that had been cut into its center. None of them realize that its missing piece is still affixed to the card, right under my thumb.

“That being said… moving a hole is far easier to visualize.”

With some sleight of hand, I pop the cut-out circle back into place, and whilst pretending to ‘move’ it, discretely pull a second hole out in the lower half. The Lord’s eyes finally widen, but I’m still not done. I drop the card, and after a few seconds of confused glances, I speak up again.

“It’s worth mentioning that as long as it’s in motion, any hole I control won’t ‘settle’ into its new home.”

I point towards the bodyguard whose leg I grazed, and to everyone’s horror, there it was! A black hole, no doubt from the fallen card, dancing across their comrade’s forehead, completely unphased by his panicked clawing at it. I reach out to hold his arm – Wulfram’s cue to move his tattoo back onto my body. The Lord looks elated.

“To tell the truth Mr. Erland, that was enough for me. Are the terms we discussed prior acceptable?

“Naturally.”

Let’s make this a home run. Bring out the refreshments.

“Splendid! I suppose all that’s left is to finalize our agreement with a…”

Toast.

“…contract.”

For a moment, all the blood in my veins freezes over. A contract? He’s making a deal with a group of criminals; cutting out the national government to save money. Besides, no self-respecting mercenary group would honor bureaucracy – least of all a group like The Five Thousand. I could feel Wulfram’s gaze burn holes into the back of my head. His expression was screaming “What did you just agree to?” Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead.

“A contract?”

“Mr. Erland. I’m not naïve enough to write up a physical record of our dealings for legal purposes,” the Lord spoke with renewed zeal, “but as insurance? It’s a small risk with hardly any downsides.”

Before I was able to try reading in-between the lines, a well-dressed, well-groomed man emerged from the mob of ‘bodyguards’ the Lord kept standing for protection. He bowed.

“Well met.” The well-spoken man began to introduce himself. “My name is Völl, although I’m better-known under the moniker of the contract magus.”

Today, the universe is against me. Völl continues.

“My magick is straightforward – I’m able to make any and every contract unbreakable, in a sense.” His cordial smile developed an unnerving quality about it. “To be succinct, neither party can get out of compensating the other. Those who try have their bodies hijacked by my magick, and are forced to recompense the other person, as per the contract.”

At a certain point, I stopped being able to hear Völl’s explanation. Should we just flip the table and run? No… the Lord’s brought too much muscle with him. If he’s got the connections to employ someone as desirable as Völl, there’s bound to be at least one magus here who can stop us outright. Should I bluff a reason for not being able to sign the contract? Damn it, no, illiteracy wouldn’t even matter when we’re dealing with a magus – as long as he decides the contract has been signed, the magick will probably work. Could me and Wulfram hold the Lord hostage somehow? Maybe if Rum was here… but we don’t even know what magick everyone around us is able to use. I try turning to face Wulfram, but all my muscles feel as though they’ve tied themselves into knots.

“If you would sign here, Mr. Erland.”

As the Lord pushes up a parchment to my side of the table, Völl hands me the feather and inkwell. Even if I were to drop the act and admit we’re swindlers, the Lord would have every justification to kill us, or worse, force us to sign the contract with amended terms.

Truly, there only is one way.

Me and Wulfram were back at our communal room at the inn. Rum had woken up a while ago. Crisp sunlight and soothing birdsong passed through our bedroom, where the three of us sat. It made me want to hurl.

“You signed it?” Rum asked, her hands covering both her nose and mouth, exasperated.

Neither myself nor Wulfram needed to answer – the fact that we weren’t in a rush to escape from the inn was proof enough. The tattooist brought a lit spill closer to his pipe, igniting it. Rum, however, didn’t explode in a way I expected her to. Instead, she got up from the bed, and fetched our pouch of coins. Holding the bag with her teeth, the girl plucked two gold coins out with her only hand, and threw it onto my bed.

“There’s your share, goodbye, and get out.”

Wulfram spoke up before I got a chance.

“Rum, shouldn’t we talk about this–”

“Shut up.” Some anger was bubbling up now. “We already drew a line in the sand for him Wulfram! And a second, and a third!”

The tattooist stammered, and Rum shifted her focus towards me.

“And you! What is going on in that empty head?!”

How was I even going to bring this up?

“Tell me Erland, really! Why do you do shit like this? Do you just get off on the thrill of nearly getting yourself killed?! Us killed?! What is the common denominator?!”

I thought hard about what words to use to minimize the damage, but…

“You’re on your own this time. May we never meet again.”

…I need to push the truth out past my lips.

“Magick is all about perception. What a magus is able to accomplish within their dominium is largely affected by what makes sense to that magus...” I swallow away the lump in my throat. “…and when contracts are concerned, it makes perfect sense that a group representative can sign one on behalf of his collaborators.”

I don’t need to say another word. Wulfram starts choking on tobacco smoke. Rum stares back at me in disbelief.

“In exchange for the immediate, lump-sum payment of 7 gold coins, we’ve all been contracted to apprehend, or otherwise put to death… the lightning magus.”

I feel as if I’d just finished reading my own obituary.