Divine Magus: Awakening

withoutrchant's office smelled faintly of spiced wine and paper ink—an intentional choice to give the illusion of refinement. Ledgers and scrolls were stacked along the back wall, each marked with tidy, obsessive handwriting.

The man behind the desk adjusted his gold-threaded cuffs when the visitor entered.

"You're late," the merchant said, keeping his voice firm. "I don't like delays."

The visitor's hood shadowed their face, though the faint outline of a smile tugged at their lips. "Some doors don't open unless you wait for the right knock."

The merchant leaned back in his chair, uneasy at the tone. "You said you had a proposal."

"Not a proposal. An opportunity," the visitor corrected. They stepped closer, their movements fluid—deliberate without being theatrical. "Your ships run east. Your caravans north. But the routes south? Untouched. Risky. Unstable. Yet… immensely profitable."

The merchant frowned. "You think I haven't considered that? Those routes are locked down by the border authorities. Impossible to move goods through without—"

"—without the right signatures," the visitor interrupted smoothly. "And those signatures are already waiting for you. All you need is the courage to act."

The merchant's eyes narrowed. "And in return?"

The visitor placed a small, black sigil on the desk—a carved obsidian disk etched with the coiled form of a three-eyed serpent.

"You don't ask what the Ophidian Eye gains," they said, voice steady. "You ask what you gain. We can clear the routes, shield your ledgers from inspections, and ensure your competitors vanish from the board entirely. In months, your reach will double."

The merchant hesitated. His gaze lingered on the sigil, his fingers twitching against the desk. "And if I refuse?"

"Then another merchant will sit here next season," the visitor replied without raising their voice. "And they will accept."

Silence hung in the room. The merchant reached for the sigil, turning it over in his palm. "And you'll handle… the authorities?"

A faint smile appeared under the hood. "We are the authorities when it matters."

The ink was on the contract within the hour.

When the visitor left, the merchant's office seemed somehow colder, though the window shutters had never moved.

**********

Somewhere else…

The dimly lit chamber smelled faintly of incense and iron. A single lantern swayed from a rusted chain, throwing jagged shadows across the walls.

The man seated behind the desk wore a loose merchant's robe, but the set of his jaw spoke of authority. His hands rested on an untouched ledger, the ink on his quill long dried.

Across from him sat a figure in plain travel attire, hood low over their face. Their voice carried no warmth—only precision.

"You want your ships to sail without interruption. I want your ports to open to my cargo. We both stand to profit."

The merchant leaned back, masking his suspicion with a slow exhale. "The Guild already regulates foreign goods. Even if I agreed, their enforcers—"

"They will look the other way," the hooded figure interrupted, sliding a small wooden box across the desk. The latch clicked open under the merchant's thumb. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a single snake-shaped ring of green metal, its eyes set with dark stones.

The merchant's breath caught. "Obsidian ore… from the Outer Veins?"

"More than that. A gift, and a promise. Wear it, and certain doors will open for you—doors the Guild has kept locked for decades."

The merchant closed the box, but his hand lingered. "What's the cost?"

The hooded figure's smile was unseen, but its weight settled in the air. "A simple adjustment to your shipping records. Mark a few crates as 'grain reserves' instead of 'unregistered imports.' My people will handle the rest."

"And if the Guild finds out?"

"They won't. You'll be richer, they'll be none the wiser… and you'll owe me nothing—unless you choose to refuse me later."

It wasn't a threat, but it felt like one. The merchant studied the figure's stillness, the way they seemed to leave no presence at all, as though they could vanish between blinks.

Finally, he slid the box toward himself. "Done."

The figure stood, pulling their hood lower. "Then the routes will open within the month."

When they left, the lantern's flame guttered, throwing the walls into deeper shadows. The merchant didn't notice the faint hiss that lingered in the silence, nor the brief sensation of something cold brushing the back of his neck.

***********

Back in the temple of The Ophidian Eye, a meeting was once again underway. Amongst the leaders who called themselves The Coil.

The chamber was lit only by the soft, serpentine glow of green lanterns, each flame curling like a coiled tongue. Shadows gathered in the corners, thick and unmoving, as though reluctant to leave. The walls were smooth black stone, veined faintly with silver that caught the light like strands of molten thread. Six figures sat around an obsidian table carved into the likeness of a great serpent eating its own tail.

The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and ink, sharp yet comforting, as if the room had held centuries of whispered plans. Somewhere in the distance, the faint drip of water echoed through the stone corridors, keeping time with the silence between breaths.

At the head, the Speaker of the Coil adjusted his gloves before speaking. His voice came slow, deliberate, and edged with quiet satisfaction, the kind of tone that made every syllable sound inevitable.

"Our trade routes are secure," he said, letting the words sink in. "From the southern ports to the northern spires, every caravan carries more than just goods. Our influence rides with them, hidden in crates, in whispers, in sealed letters no one dares open."

Across from him, a woman in crimson leaned back, her ringed fingers tapping the armrest in an uneven rhythm. "And our friends in the customs houses have grown quite accommodating—after a little persuasion." The faintest smile curved her lips, but her eyes were cold and exact, measuring the others as if weighing their worth.

"Persuasion?" The man to her right gave a low chuckle. His hood cast his face in shadow, but his teeth caught the green light for the briefest instant. "You've always had a talent for understatement."

Her gaze shifted toward him. "And you've always had a talent for forgetting who makes your shipments disappear from the ledgers."

The tension was sharp enough to feel, but the hooded man only tilted his head slightly, a gesture that might have been deference or challenge.

Breaking the silence, another member unrolled a parchment and slid it across the table. His movements were precise, the paper landing directly before the Speaker without sliding an inch farther. "Three ministers, two uildmasters, and a prince's aide," he said. "All bound by their own signatures. They'll dance as we pull the strings, or their sins become public scripture."

The parchment was covered in names, dates, and symbols in a looping cipher only they could read. To an outsider, it would have looked like the ramblings of a mad scribe. To the Ophidian Eye, it was a map of control.

A ripple of murmured approval passed through the table. Even the woman in crimson gave a faint nod.

The man known only as The Archivist lifted a black porcelain cup to his lips, inhaling the steam before taking a slow sip. His hooded eyes drifted over the parchment, and when he spoke, his tone was almost bored. "The brilliance is in the layering. They believe they owe us favors when in truth they owe us their lives. The more they whisper our name in fear, the more it becomes a fact of power. Fear, after all, does not fade—it grows with retelling."

A tall, narrow man in dark green robes tapped his fingers against the table, his nails clicking on the stone. "And the next phase?" His voice was higher than the others, with a faint rasp, as though he had swallowed dust.

The Speaker's gloved hand rested against the serpent engraving in the table. "We move forward. The roads are ours. The gates are ours. And the throats of those in high places…" He let the sentence trail off, his fingers tightening as though squeezing something invisible. "They will not notice the coil until it is too late."

The woman in crimson leaned forward slightly. "What of the eastern roads? The last report suggested resistance."

The tall man in green gave a thin smile. "It has been handled. The caravan master who objected will not be returning. His successor is far more reasonable—and already indebted to us for… personal matters."

"Good." The Speaker glanced around the table, his gaze lingering on each member for just long enough to remind them that every absence would be noticed, every betrayal remembered.

The Archivist set down his cup. "The blackmail is effective, but temporary. People panic when cornered. Eventually, desperation breeds recklessness. I suggest we weave the debts deeper—make it so their ruin comes not from a single slip, but from a life entirely entangled in ours. Something they cannot unravel even if they wished to."

The hooded man nodded slowly. "A web instead of a chain."

"Precisely," The Archivist replied.

The Speaker inclined his head, the faintest shadow of approval passing over his features. "Do it. And make sure the web touches places we do not yet reach."

The woman in crimson smoothed her sleeve. "We'll need more hands for that."

"You'll have them," the Speaker said.

A silence fell, not uncomfortable but heavy with thought. In the flickering green light, their faces were masks—some serene, some shadowed, some faintly amused. The serpent engraving on the table seemed almost to writhe in the shifting glow.

Finally, the Speaker rose to his feet. "You all know your tasks. The Eye must never be seen, only felt. Let the merchants think they grow rich by chance. Let the lords think their secrets are still hidden. Let the guards think they are merely lazy when they fail to notice the wrong crates in the right wagons. Every step they take will bring them closer to our will, and they will never realize it until they are inside the coil."

No one spoke for several moments after that. The green flames hissed and swayed, casting the serpent's shadow across the faces of the Ophidian Eye.

One by one, they rose and left, their footsteps echoing down the stone halls. The woman in crimson was the last to glance back at the table before disappearing into the shadows.

When all had gone, the Speaker remained alone. His gloved hand traced the ouroboros on the table one final time, the carved head and tail meeting beneath his fingertips.

"All things return to the serpent," he whispered, the words curling into the dark like smoke.