Aldric Thornweather climbed the steps of his towering trade hall and looked out over Entrana. The clock spires of his routes stretched to the horizon. He wanted a council seat, and he was close. Then the air split open above the market, and a devil stepped through. The creature dropped a scroll at his feet. Red script crawled across the parchment. It was his shipping pact for the southern roads — already signed away to a rival. Aldric read three more pacts beneath it. All stolen. All sealed in blood. He walked fast to the lower square. A weathered wagon sat there now, glowing with broken blades and humming charms. His rival's mark was burned into its side. Buyers crowded around it, ignoring Aldric's own stalls. Magic was leaking into the world, and his rival was selling it. Aldric did not shout. He pulled a small ledger from his coat and wrote three names. Three guild masters. Three favors he had saved for the right hour. The hour was now. By dusk, riders carried his sealed letters. Each favor called in bought back a route the rival had taken. The contracts returned to his hands one by one. The bleeding stopped. But the favors were spent. The guild masters now knew what he had been holding. A shadow moved past the wagon — a six-legged cat with saber teeth, watching him with yellow eyes. The devils were not leaving. And Aldric had just shown every rival his hand.

Aldric walked back to his trade hall at dawn. A red spire stood on the far ridge where no spire had been before. Souls drifted around its peak like slow moths. The devil was watching from there now, and Aldric felt the weight of its eyes on his back. By noon, the devil stood beside him at his desk. It set a small black book on the wood. Red letters burned across the cover. The devil whispered a name — the rival's hidden buyer in the north — and tapped the book. Proof, it said. Take it. Aldric did not touch the book. He knew the rules. Any guild master who saw a devil near him would mark him cursed. They had a revolving board for that, deep in their hall, where painted faces of cursed traders spun for all to see. One panel on that board, and his council seat was gone forever. A bell rang below. A guild master was climbing the stairs for their scheduled meeting. Aldric had minutes. He grabbed the book, wrapped it in oilcloth, and shoved it behind a loose stone in the hearth. He opened a window and told the devil, plainly, to leave or to wait outside the walls. The devil smiled and stepped into smoke. The guild master entered. He sniffed the air once, frowned, and looked at the hearth. Aldric poured wine and spoke of grain prices. The man drank. He stayed an hour. He left without a word about curses. Aldric closed the door and leaned against it. He had passed, this once. But the book was still in his wall, and the spire still watched from the ridge. He had not refused the devil. He had only hidden it. And hiding a thing, he knew, was the first step to using it.