Lucien didn't rush them.
He just turned his back on the square like the party was already over and started walking toward the shack, boots kicking up little clouds of dust that stuck to the sweat on his calves.
The three merchants trailed after him without being asked twice—Mira somewhere in the back, half-hiding behind the tallest one, her patched tunic still smelling like road grease and cheap ale from whatever campfire they'd parked outside the village.
Nyx stayed on his shoulder in fox form for the first few steps, tail flicking against his neck like she was keeping count of how many times the fat one wheezed.
Then she hopped down mid-stride and shifted, silver-pink hair spilling loose as she fell into step beside Elara.
The bond between the three of them hummed low, nothing flashy, just that warm static that said they were on the same page even if nobody had said the words out loud.
Inside the shack the air felt thicker than usual—leftover stew smell mixed with the sweet-ozone Nyx always left behind and the faint damp rot from the straw mattress that never quite dried out.
Lucien dropped onto the edge of the table, legs swinging lazy, while Nyx rummaged in the Infinite Chaos Treasury like it was her personal fridge.
She came back with a dusty bottle of wine they'd lifted from the baron's men two nights back, the cork already half-pulled because why waste time pretending.
"Sit," Lucien said, jerking his chin at the wobbly chairs.
"Wine's free. Answers aren't."
The fat merchant lowered himself first, chair creaking loud enough to make Elara's mouth twitch at the corner.
He had that kind of belly that arrived half a second before the rest of him, sweat already beading on his upper lip even though the night wasn't that warm.
The other two—one skinny with ink-stained fingers, the last one with a scar across the bridge of his nose—sat more careful, eyes darting around the cramped space like they were pricing the rotting wood.
Nyx poured without ceremony, dark red liquid sloshing into four mismatched cups.
Elara stayed standing right behind Lucien's shoulder, one hand resting light on the back of his neck, thumb brushing the golden scar like it grounded her.
She didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
The Conquest Bond did the talking for her—steady, warm, the kind of pressure that said she was his and he was hers and the rest of the room could choke on it.
The fat one took a long swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and leaned forward.
"We can make you rich, boy. Real rich. Not this village scraps. Gold. Enough to buy half the baron's old lands if you want them. Protection on the caravan routes north—nobody touches your wagons. And a letter. Signed. Straight to the count himself. Says you're under our guild's wing."
Lucien swirled the wine in his cup, watching the cheap lantern light catch the edges.
It smelled like fermented regret and overripe berries someone left in the sun too long. He took a sip.
Sour. Exactly the kind of cheap shit that tasted better when you knew it cost someone else money.
"Sounds generous," he said, voice flat but carrying that São Paulo edge that never quite left even after the truck flattened him.
"Almost like you're scared the harvest magic spreads and you lose your cut on every route from here to the capital."
The skinny one with the ink fingers shifted, fingers tapping the table once like he was writing numbers in his head.
"Everyone has a price. Name yours. We'll meet it."
Lucien laughed once—short, dry, the sound bouncing off the sagging roof like it didn't belong in a place this small.
He set the cup down harder than necessary.
"I don't sell roots. I plant them."
The fat merchant's eyes narrowed, sweat catching in the folds of his neck.
He leaned in closer, voice dropping like he was sharing state secrets in a back alley bar.
"Every man has a price. Even ones with glowing hair and fox girls. Double the gold. Triple if you throw in whatever trick turned that dirt into wheat that grows overnight."
Nyx snorted softly from where she leaned against the wall, tail curling slow around her own ankle.
She didn't look at Lucien, but he felt her amusement through the bond anyway—sharp, playful, the kind that said she was enjoying the show more than the wine.
He reached into his pocket—didn't even need the treasury for this one—and pulled out a single copper coin.
Plain. Dull. The kind of thing a villager would kill for last month.
He set it on the table between them, right in the middle of a wine stain that looked like a bad map.
The merchants watched.
Lucien didn't say anything dramatic. Just let the Greed Bloodline do its thing.
The coin shivered once. Then split.
Two. Four. Eight. Sixteen.
The pile grew quiet and steady, metal clicking soft against wood until it spilled over the edge and clattered onto the dirt floor.
No light show. No cosmic ding. Just multiplication, clean and boring like compound interest on a payday loan you never asked for.
The fat one's breath hitched.
The scarred guy's hand twitched toward the pile before he caught himself.
Even Mira, still hovering near the door, stared with her mouth half-open like she'd seen a ghost do taxes.
Nyx leaned over Lucien's shoulder, breath warm against his ear, voice low enough that only he and Elara caught it.
"They're just like you. Only slower. And uglier about it."
Lucien's mouth curved that crooked half-smile, the one that started in traffic jams back home and never learned better manners.
He scooped up a handful of the multiplied coins and let them drop back onto the pile one by one, the clink loud in the sudden quiet.
"Information," he said finally.
"Routes. Who's buying what between here and the next three towns. Who the count owes money to. Who's smuggling spirit herbs through the eastern passes. That's the price. Not your gold. Not your letter. Just what you know that I don't."
The skinny merchant with the ink-stained fingers exchanged a quick look with the others.
The fat one wiped his forehead again, cup forgotten.
"You drive a hard bargain for a kid who was starving in a shack three weeks ago."
Lucien shrugged one shoulder.
"Three weeks is a long time when time runs different for me."
They talked for another hour—low voices, numbers thrown around, maps sketched on the back of a torn receipt with a stub of charcoal Nyx produced from nowhere.
Lucien listened more than he spoke, filing everything away while the Greed Bloodline hummed approval in his chest like a cat that just got fed someone else's dinner.
Elara stayed quiet but close, her fingers occasionally tightening on his shoulder when a name came up that she recognized from her father's old debts.
Nyx refilled cups when they got low, tail brushing legs under the table like she was reminding everyone who really ran the room.
By the time the merchants left—pouches heavier with multiplied wheat samples they'd "bought" at a discount, faces tighter than when they arrived—the night outside had cooled off.
The square was mostly dark, only a few lanterns still flickering near the fountain where the mana seeds kept doing their quiet work.
Lucien closed the door behind them, the wood groaning like it always did.
Elara exhaled through her nose, leaning her forehead against his back for a second.
"You gave them more than they gave you."
"Not really," he muttered.
"Information multiplies better than wheat. And they'll spread the story anyway. Free advertising."
Nyx flopped onto the straw mattress, stretching until her spine popped.
"Bed's calling. Or the pocket universe. Your choice, greedy boy."
He chose the pocket universe.
Stepping through the portal always felt like walking into clean air after a week of São Paulo traffic—mana so pure it coated the back of your throat like cold water after too many energy drinks.
Silver grass stretched forever under that flat even glow with no sun.
Time did its thing: one night out here would be weeks inside if they wanted.
They didn't go hard tonight. Just light.
Elara practiced hiding her aura, moving slow through the grass while Nyx threw little illusion shadows at her ankles to make her flinch.
Lucien sat on a low rise, copying the movements half-assed on purpose just to watch Nyx's ears flatten when he got it wrong on the first try.
"Cheater," the fox girl laughed, tackling him backward into the grass.
Her tail wrapped around his leg, soft fur warm through the thin pants.
"You did that wrong on purpose. I saw it."
"Maybe," he said, one hand sliding up her back, the other reaching for Elara when she dropped down beside them.
"Or maybe your fox tricks are just easy to steal."
Elara's laugh came quiet, breath warm against his neck as she pressed closer on the other side.
The bond between the three of them felt thicker in here—mana feeding it, time stretching it, the Greed Bloodline purring low like it approved of collecting people as much as coins.
They trained for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes outside.
Sweat cooled on skin. Muscles burned pleasant.
Lucien's level ticked up somewhere in the background—nothing dramatic, just another quiet bump while the girls bickered over who got to pin him down next.
When they finally stepped back through the portal, the shack smelled wrong.
Not destroyed. Not looted. Just… touched.
Drawers pulled out. Straw mattress flipped. The table shoved crooked like someone had been looking for something specific and didn't care about being neat.
Nothing was missing. Not the multiplied coins still scattered on the floor from earlier. Not the wine bottle. Not even the half-eaten loaf Nyx had left on the shelf.
But right in the middle of the table, an expensive-looking dagger pinned a scrap of paper straight through the wood.
The blade still vibrated faintly, like it had been thrown hard.
Lucien pulled the note free with two fingers.
The handwriting was neat. Official. The kind of script that came from someone who paid scribes to make threats look classy.
"The count knows. He comes in three days."
No signature. No extra flourish. Just that.
Nyx's ears flattened. Elara's hand found the hilt of her short sword without thinking.
Lucien stared at the paper a second longer, the golden scar over his eyebrow itching sharp.
He crumpled it slow, the sound loud in the suddenly too-quiet shack.
"Three days," he muttered, mouth curving into that same crooked smile even though his chest felt tighter than it should.
"Guess the party's about to get louder."
The night air outside carried the faint smell of cooling stew and distant woodsmoke, but underneath it all something sharper lingered—like expensive ink and the kind of trouble that didn't knock before it arrived.