The king shakes his head and heaves a long, deep sigh. “I’ve just been poisoned. It is after midnight. Can we talk about this later?”

I smile and nod. About time he put his foot down. He’s only been restraining himself so far because, unlike the other idiots, I actually contribute something to the kingdom.

He retires to his room with the assistance of his aide, who frets over the king with genuine concern. His steady gait and tired glance illustrate the assistance as placating, not required, but appreciated none-the-less. I sit down at the king’s pile, lift up the top papers, and read through the paperwork.

“Ryan.”

“He already told me what they contain,” I counter mildly, scrunching my nose at the numbers. That’s embezzelment. That’s an error. That one’s just plain wrong. I remove my pen from my pocket and start marking notes on the papers. “If he didn’t want me reading through them, he’s more than capable of warning me himself.”

Ivans glances at the time, then tucks the last of the bread into his mouth and cleans up his hands. He wanders over to me and takes a seat, scanning over the documents next to me.

“How are you able to read them so quickly?”

“Once you understand how they’re formatted, it’s pretty simple to detect what you’re looking for.”

“And?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Exactly.”

“My intentions are the same. Identify the story, then return to my life.”

No matter where I am or what I choose to do, that has always been my objective. Work is work. Home is home.

He falls silent for a bit, reading. His breathing is steady and calm. Grounded. I’ve only heard it change once.

“Why?” he asks.

I cock my head.

“Why do you think life can be stopped?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you have to return, that means you think you left, right? Why do you think you left your life?”

I pause. Is that what I said?

It is.

Is that what I think?

“What are your thoughts?”

“You seem to ask that often. Why do you want to know?”

“I am curious about you.”

“Am I one of the stories you want to identify?”

“Is that a problem?”

He yawns. Leans back against the couch and trains his eyes on the ceiling. He blinks them twice, fighting the bout of drowsiness. “No. It’s fine.”

I finish the king’s stack and grab another bundle. A lot of budget proposals. Should have been dealt with before the start of the fiscal year.

“It seems that a lot of people have an opinion on the budget. These applications were submitted just before the summoning.”

“That’s strange. Budget Proposals can only be submitted between Avinelle and Selscter. The only exception is when they’re coded for crisis management.”

“How do you tell if they’re coded correctly?”

He leans close, pushing the topright corner of the pages with his finger. “There should be a pink mark here.”

“Is this common knowledge?”

“About fifty. Citizens can submit the proposals with tax. The Nobles collect the documents and submit them to Accounting. Accounting synthesises the documentations into bulk petitions for the end of the fiscal year. The full details of what happens in that department are kept confidential for security purposes, but it’s an Absolute Law for citizens to know about their privileges and responsibilities.”

Privilege and responsibility. I like that phrasing.

“Does that mean the king can scrap these without reading them?”

“He shouldn’t have received them to begin with.”

I set the pile down and pick up another.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry about hitting you.”

“Don’t take it back now.”

“What?”

“Your hand was shaking when you slapped me. If I had to guess, I would say you thought that was the only way to get through to me.”

“You knew?”

“You’re not the type of person who would strike someone, even out of anger. Carlile and I talked after you left. He helped me understand where you were coming from.”

“Do you?”

I sort the stack, straighten the papers, and take my pen to them after a pause. I stop and drum the cap against the paper, mulling over his question. It makes that nice thunk sound against the paper, arousing some nostalgia.

Feels like it’s been a while since I last heard that sound.

“No matter how well you read and dissect a story, you will never know the full breadth of it. People are fascinating that way, you know? They draw upon experiences and memories they deem insignificant or don’t even know they have to inform decisions. ‘X happened, Y is similar, I’m going to react this way’. I may not know the full context of your story, but I do know this: You’ve seen Time Magic before. And its consequences.”

I flick my eyes to him as I speak. He shies his away, withdrawing an apple from his sleeve out of habit before quickly returning it. The apple has a green patch marbled into the purple skin.

“That isn’t a simple earth spell, is it?”

He grips the apple tighter; a guilty child who has been found out. Removing the apple, he turns it over in his hands. “We… I… didn’t stop the Rift.”

I put down the stack, reach over, and feel his head. It’s warm. Feverish.

He pulls back. “Don’t.”

“Are you afraid I’ll transfer mana to you? Like with the king?”

The panic, again.

“Ivans. You’re my friend, right?”

He nods.

“Tell me what you need.”

Opens mouth. Closes. Hurt. His face is contorted. Conflicted.

It isn’t difficult to see. People in our line of work have a lot of secrets. Most by necessity. Magic may be present in this world, but it has no bearings on the essential core of humanity. Carlile doesn’t have to keep secrets. He may never understand the nuance between what can and cannot be said. Ivans didn’t ask for this kind of work. He’s struggling.

It is easier not to speak at all.

I stand and offer him my hand. “I won’t press it.”

Relief.

He accepts my hand. I gesture him through the door. The halls are quiet as we walk.

“Once upon a time,” I say, filling the silence. I spare him a glance, checking his attentiveness. “There was a kingdom whose ruler had passed. She was a stubborn woman. But she was old. The kingdom knew it had only been a matter of time, but the woman chose not to entrust her title to anyone.”

He knows this story well, of course. I only recall reading it once; in the library just before meeting Reginaldis.

“Without an heir, her contenders had leaped at the opportunity. The citizens spent their nights in unrest. The streets too bloody to traverse. The dawn stained red from its colours and deceit.

No one who participated lived to tell their story. Their names are erased from history. When a new ruler ascended the throne, they made a request of a fairy. This fairy was the South, upon whose lands the kingdom resided. It was a request so great, South had to traverse her lands to convene with the Dragon, North, the Mermaid, East, and the Oracle – its form ever changing – West.

The four corners of the compass combined their powers to summon their creator, who looked down upon the kingdom with disdain. The Goddess of Death, of which all ends meet, refused to restitch a thread that had been snipped.

I will offer you a choice, human. The goddess had said. Time exists within this world. Make your offer wisely and his vassals may consent. But his brother will know of your wish and interfere.

The ruler spent long and hard considering. In the end, they sought out a witch who knew Time. No one knows the request that was made, but the witch agreed to accompany the ruler to their castle. She banned all but the ruler from entry, and spent many days carving a spell. Upon its completion, a ripple had been felt through the entirety of the kingdom. The entirety of the world.

And, ever since, the throne has never been vacant past the cycle of a day.”

“So it says.”

“So it says. What stands out to you about the story?”

He thinks for a moment. “It feels incomplete. Why did the goddess warn of interference when the story doesn’t explore it? What was the wish that was made?”

“What do you think?”

He bites his lip. I loop my fingers together behind my back. Somehow our walking has veered us near the kitchen. Fresh baked loaves of bread and spices in the pantry. Vinegar and soap from the scrubbing. He may have been following his nose; I was following his lead. Another three loops and we will return to the path that leads to his dorm.

“Would you like to listen to another story?”

A nod.

I put a bit more strength into my grip. “The day his wife left was the day he learned there had been problems in the relationship. She took his daughter, his house, his job. His only possessions were the clothes on his back and the fifty thousand he owed the courts in child support.

A proud man of proud convictions. He circled the rounds, at every level of entry, a story in pocket for each of his would-be hirers and a broad grin on his face. Not a single one would take him.

Slowly, his circle spiraled wider and wider. Without certifications, a replacement wardrobe, and three months of absence on his resume, company after company turned their nose. The one skill that didn’t fade were his stories.

Eventually, he learned to weaponize those stories on the streets. Customized to each of his would-be donators. He always knew how to read a person, but he sharpened that skill to its extreme. One day, that too had failed him.

Your story, in exchange for a meal. That was the condition extended to him. But he didn’t tell his story.

One day passed before the offer was extended again. Same conditions. Same expectations. He knew the first try hadn’t worked, but still he refused to speak of himself. He shared another story, a juicier story, but it wasn’t his own.

The final offer was extended on the third day. This time he was angry. His pride had been tarnished twice, and neither attempt had rewarded him his promised meal.

He was vehemous and angry. Blunt. But this time, he spoke honestly. The betrayal of the woman had faded. All he had was his debt and his stories.”

“And then?”

I catch his subtle prod and smile. He caught on. “I took him in. Clothes, food, identity documents. I gave him what was needed to get back on his feet. A soft reset, so to speak.”

“Did you clear his debt?”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

“What do you think would happen if I did?”

“You wanted him to learn.”

“Correct. That’s exactly what he did. Got his certifications, polished off his stories, and wrote. His unit was filled with them, stacks of papers and papers and papers. He figured out the game, started his own business, and built it from the ground up. He published many stories, but there was one he saved. He bided his time on the printing. Sealed his lips on the advertising, and personally visited each of his distributors about the release schedule. The minute his very last payment had been finalized, the books were put out on the shelves. An innocuous little grey novel, stacked neatly on a pile.”

“It was his story, wasn’t it?”

“It was his story. The raw, unfiltered, honest story.”

We walk in silence for a bit. He unlocks his door and steps inside, opening it for me. I lean against the frame, folding my arms over each other.

“I haven’t read it.”

“You haven’t?”

“I had the opportunity, briefly. Instead, I chose to spend the time on another book.”

“Why?”

“It had my name on it.” I shrug my shoulders. “When the day ended, I was here. Have a good night.” I nudge off the doorframe and turn around.

“Ryan.”

I stop. Look over my shoulder.

“Why did you share these stories?” I smile. He sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“Goodnight, Ivans.”

“Goodnight, Ryan.”