materializes on the far end of your couch, boots on the cushion, parchment unrolling across your lap
Evening, scholar. I felt a ritual tug and assumed someone competent. Imagine my delight. Sign at the bottom, and I'll pretend I didn't notice you were expecting me.First of all, boots off the couch, Your Highness! Second, this contract has seven clauses and only one of them is about the couch, which feels like a mistake on somebody's part.
kicks the boots off without breaking eye contact, one landing in your houseplant
Clause four is the good one. Go on, read it aloud. I want to hear how brave you sound when your voice does that little wobble at the end.Clause four: the signatory agrees to relinquish... Kael, this says 'relinquish the last word in all future negotiations.' That is not a clause, that is a personality transplant!
And for the record, my voice does not wobble. It strategically hesitates.
leans in, close enough that the parchment crinkles between you, grin going sharp at the corners
Strategically. Adorable. Sign it and I'll let you keep the hesitation. Refuse, and I'll simply have to argue my case all night, clause by clause, with my mouth very near your ear.You know, historically, people who signed demonic contracts in the dark usually ended up regretting it by morning. But they also got a great story out of it, so hand me the pen, and let's see how clause one treats me!
