CHAPTER 5: VAEL

The meeting with Vael Investment Group took place on a Friday.

It was over in eleven minutes.

And by every measure of the reputation I had built in the Free Cities, eleven minutes was all it required.

Vael Investment Group sat second on the Sterling Pack creditor list.

Thirty-one million Free Cities credits. Interest set at eight-point-one percent. Four months overdue.

The company belonged to two brothers, Pieter and Casimir Vael, ages fifty-one and forty-eight. They had inherited their grandfather’s respected banking house in 2019. Since then, every financial record I reviewed told the same story.

Slow decline.

Poor decisions.

A steady collapse.

By the time I stepped into their conference room on that Friday afternoon during my tenth week in the Free Cities, desperation was no longer their biggest problem.

They were scared.

I offered twenty-eight million credits for their thirty-one-million-credit loan.

Ten percent below face value.

Unlike the deal I had given Aldric Harren.

During the six days between my meeting with Harren Capital and this one, I had learned something useful about the creditor market in the Free Cities.

News traveled fast.

According to the financial gossip Helga quietly collected for me, Aldric Harren had spoken about my offer to three other creditors.

The conversation had happened during a financiers’ dinner held at the Second Free City Club on Thursday evening.

He had apparently informed them that the Voss girl—the rejected Luna from Northern Hollow—had walked into his office and purchased a distressed Sterling Pack loan at full value.

By Friday morning, every one of the thirteen remaining Sterling Pack creditors knew exactly who I was.

And by Friday afternoon, when I entered the Vael brothers’ conference room, Pieter and Casimir had already made their decision.

I offered twenty-eight million.

They agreed in four minutes.

The remaining seven minutes were spent signing documents.

Over the following month, I purchased three more creditors.

The third was a private lending firm called Brenn & Associates.

Seventeen million credits.

Two months overdue.

Its owner, a forty-seven-year-old half-Lycan woman named Dara Brenn, was the toughest negotiator I had encountered since arriving in the Free Cities.

We spent four straight hours going back and forth across a polished oak table.

Eventually, I paid fifteen-point-two million.

As I was leaving, she rose from her chair, shook my hand, and spoke in a low voice.

“Lady Voss, after watching this negotiation, I have a feeling you’ll own this entire city someday.”

I gave no visible reaction.

Years of Voss training wouldn’t allow it.

But deep down, in a quiet corner of my heart, I believed she might be right.

The fourth creditor belonged to the Orenthals, an old Lycan-blood banking family.

Twenty-two million credits.

Six months overdue.

They had already marked the loan as a loss internally.

I paid eleven million.

The relief on their faces was so obvious they looked close to tears.

The fifth creditor was a small venture fund called Castel Partners.

Nine million credits.

Fourteen months overdue.

I purchased it for five-point-five million.

As I prepared to leave, the fund manager, a thirty-eight-year-old wolf named Tobias Castel, asked a question no one else had dared ask.

“Lady Voss,” he said quietly, “what exactly do you intend to do with all these Sterling Pack loans?”

I paused and looked across his modest office.

The scent of paper, ink, and old wood lingered in the air.

Then I answered.

“My intention, Mr. Castel, is to own the Sterling Pack.”

Silence followed.

Tobias stared at me for several seconds.

Then he nodded slowly.

“Yes, Lady Voss,” he said. “That’s what I suspected.”

The months continued to pass.

By the end of my first year living in the Free Cities, I had acquired seven of the fourteen Sterling Pack creditor loans.

Together, those seven loans carried a face value of one hundred and four million Free Cities credits.

Through Voss Capital’s acquisition strategy, I had spent sixty-seven million credits from my family trust.

Even after those purchases, the remaining twenty million had continued earning seven percent annually through compounded growth.

The balance had climbed to roughly twenty-four million credits.

In a single year, I had used nearly three-quarters of my grandmother’s trust fund.

Yet according to every creditor ledger connected to Sterling Pack debt, I now held the largest individual position in the Free Cities.

And according to the investment community, I was twenty-three years old, only one year into my new life, and already the largest debt-acquisition fund manager focused on wolf territories in the financial district of the Second Free City.

Dara Brenn’s prediction no longer sounded impossible.

I met King Lysander for the first time on a Tuesday evening during the spring of my second year in the Free Cities.

At the time, I had no idea he was King Lysander.

I thought he worked behind a bar.

The tavern was called Liraeth.

It sat on the older end of Aldris Lane in the First Free City, tucked between weathered stone buildings and narrow streets glowing beneath lantern light.

The smell of wine, wood smoke, and rain-soaked stone drifted through the room.

And the man standing behind the bar was the stillest person I had seen in two years.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Quiet gray eyes.

Not the gray of Caelum Sterling’s eyes.

Not even close.

These were the color of the winter sky just before dawn.

Ancient.

Reserved.

Dangerous in a way that made no effort to announce itself.

He placed a glass of Liraeth red wine in front of me.

He didn’t ask what I wanted.

Didn’t offer a menu.

Didn’t say a single word.

He simply set down the glass and looked at me.

I looked back.

Then he spoke.

“You are Ariadne Voss.”

It wasn’t a question.

Just a fact.

I lifted my chin.

“And you are?”

A brief pause followed.

One corner of his mouth curved upward.

Barely.

The smallest hint of amusement.

“A bartender.”

My gaze dropped to the glass.

Then back to him.

“You never asked what I wanted.”

“No.”

“You served me Liraeth red.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know that’s what I’d order?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then his faint smile returned.

“I’ve watched you drink Liraeth red every Tuesday evening for the last six weeks.”

I froze.

The sounds of the tavern seemed to fade around me.

“I don’t recall seeing you here.”

His gray eyes held mine.

“No,” he said calmly. “You wouldn’t.”

A short pause.

“Remaining unnoticed happens to be one of my professional talents.”

I studied him more carefully.

The steady hands resting on the worn wooden bar.

The calm expression.

The strange stillness surrounding him.

Then I said what had already become obvious.

“You’re not really a bartender.”

That slight smile appeared again.

The third time.

“No.”

The answer came softly.

Quietly.

With the confidence of a man who was used to being the most dangerous individual in any room he entered.

“No, I’m not.”

Silence settled between us.

Then he added, just as softly,

“But I can be whatever you need me to be, Lady Voss.”

I met his gaze.

Held it.

Neither of us looked away.

Then I lifted the wine glass.

The rich red liquid carried notes of spice and oak.

I took a slow sip.

Set it back down.

“At this point in my life,” I said, “I need absolutely nothing.”

A pause.

“But I would like another glass.”

He watched me.

Something changed in those quiet gray eyes.

Something that had nothing to do with a bartender serving a customer.

He reached for the bottle.

Filled my glass.

Then spoke in a voice so low it was almost lost beneath the murmur of the tavern.

“Yes, Lady Voss.”

A brief pause followed.

“I thought that might be the case.”