The Printer and the Forty Thousand Prayers (A Dice Company: Tales of Kale Vala Fanfic)
This story is a work of fan fiction, written with affection for the worlds and characters of Dice Company: Small Embers and The Tales of Kale Vala. If you enjoy this tale, you can find both shows on most podcast platforms, or visit DiceCompanyPodcast.com for more stories, episodes, and misadventures.
I, am Kale Vala
I have learned that the best stories rarely announce themselves.
They do not arrive neatly bound with dates and conclusions already in place. More often, they turn up smelling faintly of smoke, ink, or cheap ale, attached to someone who has no idea they are carrying something worth keeping.
It was on a winter evening in Slateholm that I found myself in a modest tavern near Inkward Lane, warming my hands around a cup that claimed to be mulled wine. The fire was doing most of the work. I had come in search of nothing in particular, which has always proved the most reliable way to find anything.
The tiefling at the neighbouring table had the look of a working man. His fingers were stained with ink that would never quite wash out, his posture shaped by long hours at a press. He
smelled faintly of hot metal and oil. His horns were modest, his tail looped around a chair leg, the habits of someone used to being overlooked.
I pulled up a chair and started the conversation. He introduced himself as SJ Phyonix, then decided not to explain what the initials stood for. Instead he muttered something about a well-known farm animal with the same name, and the sort of jokes people think they are the first to make. I took the hint and let it lie. We spoke of the weather, as all civilised encounters must. Snow, wind, the way Slateholm always finds a way into your coat. In the course of it, he mentioned that he worked at Florel and Hardy’s. I noted the name and said nothing. Printers see everything.
When the talk turned to my own work, I told him I collect stories. True ones, preferably, though I am not overly strict about that distinction. At this, he smiled.
“I’ve got one of those,” he said. “Nothing important. But it did involve forty thousand mistakes, all printed in very fine ink.”
I leaned back and recognised the moment for what it was.
“Then,” I said, “you had best start at the beginning.”
There was nothing remarkable about the man at first, and that was perhaps the most important thing about him.
At the time, it was an ordinary day in Slateholm, the sort that blurred into every other day if you worked on Inkward Lane long enough. Late summer lingered in the city, not in any dramatic way, but as a background presence that showed itself in longer light and slower mornings. Inside Florel and Hardy’s, the presses were warming for the day, the metal settling with soft ticks and creaks as heat worked its way through them. The air carried the familiar mixture of oil, soot, paper, and old ink, a smell that never quite left the place no matter how often the windows were opened or how carefully the floors were swept.
SJ was at his usual bench, setting type and correcting a tray that had been badly sorted the night before. He worked methodically, lifting each piece, checking it, and returning it to its proper place with the ease of long habit. It was work that rewarded patience rather than thought, and it left his mind free to drift over small, inconsequential matters. He wondered how long it had been since the presses were cleaned properly, whether the kettle in the back room had been left to boil too long again, and what he might eat later if the day stayed quiet. None of these thoughts mattered, and that suited him well enough.
The bell over the door rang.
SJ glanced up, more from routine than interest, and waited to see whether the sound would lead to anything that required his attention.
The man stepped inside, paused just inside the doorway, blinking slightly as his eyes adjusted from the brightness outside. He took in the shop with open interest, letting his gaze travel over the presses, the racks of paper, and the cluttered counter. He was human and decently dressed, tidy in a way that suggested care rather than wealth. The sort of man who owned one good coat and wore it everywhere, trusting it to present him as more established than he might otherwise appear.
“Good morning,” he said. “I was hoping you were open.”
“We are,” SJ replied, setting his tools aside and turning to face him properly. “What can I help you with?”
He smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “That is good to hear. I am starting a business, and I need a proper mark made for it.”
He paused, then added, as if remembering a step he had almost skipped. “My name is Deivox Deivox.”
SJ nodded, as he had nodded many times before, and reached for a scrap of paper and a piece of charcoal. “Name’s SJ. So… tell me what you are thinking.”
Deivox hesitated. For the first time since entering the shop, his attention shifted away from the counter. His eyes flicked briefly toward SJ’s horns, tracing their curve almost without realising it, before he caught himself and looked back down again.
“I should ask,” he said, not unkindly and with a hint of awkwardness. “There is no… conflict, is there? Given the nature of the work.”
SJ followed the glance without comment. He had learned long ago that pretending not to notice such things only made them linger.
“If there were,” he said evenly, “I would not be standing here taking the job. I am paid to print what is agreed.”
Deivox considered this for a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied, and drew a small breath as though setting the concern aside.
“I want a holy star,” he said after a moment’s thought, warming to the subject again, “and a sword worked into it somehow. Something that suggests faith, but also strength.”
“That should not be difficult,” SJ replied. “Where do you plan to use it?”
“On signs, mostly,” Deivox said. “And printed notices. Anything people might see.”
SJ began to sketch while Deivox watched from across the counter. His hand moved quickly, lines appearing and disappearing as he tested shapes and proportions. He adjusted angles, discarded one idea, and returned to another. The design came together with little effort, clean lines and sensible balance, something that would read clearly at a distance without demanding attention up close. It was the sort of mark that would sit comfortably wherever it was placed, which was often the highest praise.
When SJ slid the finished sketch across the counter, Deivox leaned in to examine it more closely. He turned the paper slightly, held it at arm’s length, then brought it back again, studying it in silence.
“Yes,” he said at last. “That will do very nicely.”
SJ named the price: thirty-five gold, expecting at least a pause or a question. There was none. Deivox paid immediately, then, after a brief hesitation, left fifty on the counter instead.
“That is for your trouble,” he said. “You have done good work.”
SJ hesitated, then inclined his head. “Thank you. That is appreciated.”
Deivox rolled the sketch with care, as though it might crease if treated roughly, and tucked it under his arm. “I expect I will be back,” he said as he turned to leave. “If it all goes well.”
“Best of luck with it,” SJ replied, already reaching back for his tools.
Deivox smiled and went out into the street, the bell ringing softly behind him as the door closed.
By the end of the day, the design had been filed away with dozens of others. A simple commission, completed and paid for, and not worth a second thought among the many that passed through the shop each week.
At the time, it was nothing more than another piece of ink on paper.
Several months passed before the man returned, long enough that SJ did not recognise him immediately, and long enough that the first commission had settled into the comfortable obscurity of completed work.
Slateholm had moved on to other concerns by then. Late summer had slipped quietly into autumn, and Inkward Lane had begun to feel narrower as the light shortened and the air grew damper. Florel and Hardys had been steadily busy with the usual run of work: guild notices posted and torn down again, shipping labels stamped by the hundred, prayer sheets ordered in bulk by temples preparing for the season, and the occasional pamphlet that no one would later admit to commissioning. The small star-and-sword mark had been printed once, filed away, and forgotten, one job among many.
When the bell rang again one afternoon and the man stepped inside, SJ looked up only because the sound was familiar. It took him a moment to place the face.
“Good afternoon,” the man said brightly. “You might not remember me. Deivox Deivox.”
SJ studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Ah right, yeah, you had a logo made. A star and a sword?”
Deivox’s face lit up at once. “That is exactly right. I was hoping it had made an impression.”
“I was proud of it to be sure,” SJ said, which was true enough. “What can we do for you this time?”
Deivox did not answer immediately. He set his hands flat on the counter and leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though what he was about to say required a measure of discretion, or perhaps simply attention.
“I have had an idea,” he said. “A very good one.”
SJ waited. Experience had taught him that interrupting at this stage only encouraged longer explanations.
“They are Midwinter cards,” the man continued. “Prayer cards. Something people can buy for themselves, to mark the season properly.”
“For themselves,” SJ repeated, making sure he had understood.
“Yes,” the man said, nodding firmly. “Personal devotion. Direct. Something meaningful, without intermediaries.”
SJ considered this, then reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “All right. Tell me what you want them to look like.”
Deivox brightened at once, as though he had been waiting for that invitation. He wanted his mark on the front, large and unmistakable, placed so it could not be missed at a glance. The back, he explained, would be taken up almost entirely by his business address. SJ wrote as Deivox spoke, noting it down as Slateholm, Ovik, Aethelon, and read it back to confirm.
Deivox shook his head and produced a small slip of paper, which he slid across the counter. On it, written carefully in his own hand, was: Skatehome, Oar Quick, Air The Lion.
SJ compared the two, then paused.
SJ hesitated. “I just want to check if I’ve written this correctly,” he said. “That address doesn’t quite match the usual spelling.”
“Yes,” the man replied without hesitation. “That is intentional.”
SJ looked up. “May I ask why?”
“I would prefer not to explain,” the man said, smiling in a way that suggested he thought this added significance rather than complication.
SJ nodded and wrote it as instructed.
“And inside?” he asked.
“Scripture,” the man said. “Quotes. Blessings. Anything appropriate to the season.”
“Do you have specific passages in mind?”
“Not particularly,” the man replied. “Just ones that feel right.”
SJ made a note of that as well, already thinking about spacing and balance rather than content.
By the end of the discussion, the job had grown from a simple print run into something with shape and ambition. They agreed to start modestly: an initial run of fifty cards to establish the design. A price was given, a deposit counted out on the counter, and the remainder noted in the ledger. It was straightforward work, well within the bounds of what the shop handled every day.
Before he left, Deivox hesitated, as if weighing something he had decided not to raise earlier.
“There is one other thing,” he said. “I should be certain before we go any further.”
SJ waited.
Deivox glanced again, briefly, at SJ’s horns, then back to the counter. “Given the subject of the work,” he said carefully, “there will be no… difficulties, will there? No personal views finding their way into it.”
SJ considered him for a moment. “There will be no problem,” he said. “We print what is agreed, as it is agreed. As long as the content itself is not problematic, there is nothing to worry about.”
Deivox nodded, apparently satisfied. “That is all I wished to be sure of.”
Deivox thanked him and left, already speaking as though the cards were inevitable.
SJ watched the door close, then returned to his work. The order was a little stranger, but still well within the bounds of his trade.
At the time, there was no reason to think it would become anything else.
Work on the cards began the following week, once the shop had cleared a backlog of smaller jobs that could not wait.
He began, as he always did, with the base design. The mark was laid out carefully on a smooth slab of clay, pressed in reverse so it would read correctly once cast. He adjusted it by small, deliberate movements, smoothing an edge here, deepening a line there, until the design sat comfortably within the space. It needed to be prominent without overwhelming the card, clear at a glance but not crude. Once he was satisfied, the clay mould was fired just enough to hold its shape, and molten lead was poured in to form the plate.
When the plate cooled, it was lifted free, trimmed, and locked into the forme. SJ inked it lightly and pulled a first impression, then another, checking how the lines took ink and how the pressure read across the page. Only then did he turn to the interior text, which was set by hand and arranged with generous margins and conservative spacing. The words themselves were not his, but the balance of the page was.
The back proved more awkward. It was dominated by the address, which SJ reproduced exactly as instructed, incorrect spelling and all. He checked it twice against the slip of paper Deivox had provided, then once more against his own notes, before committing it to type. It looked wrong to him every time he saw it, but it was not his place to correct it.
When the first proof was ready, Deivox returned to review it. He took his time, standing at the counter and turning the card over in his hands, reading each section aloud under his breath. Now and then he frowned slightly, then relaxed again, as though reassuring himself that what he was seeing matched what he had imagined.
“This looks very good,” he said at last. “I am pleased with it.”
“That is good to hear,” SJ replied.
Deivox hesitated for a moment, then nodded to himself. “I was also wondering,” he said, “whether it would be possible to have more than one version.”
SJ did not answer immediately. “Different versions, how?” he asked. “Different designs, or the same design in different colours?”
“Oh, just colours,” Deivox said quickly. “The design itself should stay the same.”
“That makes things simpler,” SJ replied. “One plate will do, then.”
They settled, after some discussion, on twenty colour variations: warm reds and golds intended to suit Midwinter, cooler blues and silvers for more restrained tastes, and a handful of neutral tones that Deivox described as timeless.
Deivox nodded, apparently relieved. “Then yes, I am quite satisfied with the design as it is.”
For a short while, this appeared to be true.
The first request arrived two days later. Deivox asked that the sword be angled slightly differently, to give it a greater sense of motion. It was a small change, but it could not be made lightly. SJ loosened the forme, removed the plate, and melted it back down. The clay had to be reworked by hand, the angle adjusted, the lines pressed in again. Only then could a new plate be poured, cooled, trimmed, and locked back into place.
The second request followed soon after. The star should be larger, Deivox thought, just a little, to give it more presence. Again, the plate was removed. Again, the lead was melted, the clay reshaped, and the design remade.
Then came a change to the wording of one of the interior quotations, and a concern about spacing on the back. Each alteration was minor when spoken aloud. Each required the same process: unlock the forme, melt the plate down, remould the clay, pour the lead, and begin again. There was no way to half-change a plate. It either existed as a whole, or it did not exist at all.
SJ did this five times.
He worked carefully, methodically, accepting each request without comment beyond confirming that it had been understood. The press stood idle more often than he liked while the lead cooled and the clay was reset, but when it ran, it ran cleanly. Each new plate was tested, adjusted, and approved before the next change was attempted.
By the end of the week, the design was final.
When Deivox came in to see the finished proofs laid out together, he was visibly delighted. He moved from card to card, comparing colours, lifting them to the light, and setting them down again in new arrangements. He nodded to himself more than once.
“These look excellent,” he said. “Better than I imagined.”
SJ allowed himself a small sense of relief, the sort that came from finishing a complex task without error.
It did not last.
“I have been thinking about quantities,” Deivox said, almost as an aside, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. “I believe these will sell very well and just 50 will not cover the demand.”
“How many were you considering?” SJ asked.
Deivox smiled. “Two thousand of each.”
SJ did the calculation in his head before responding, running the numbers against press time, paper stock, and the space it would occupy.
“Forty thousand is a substantial run,” he said carefully.
“It is an investment,” Deivox replied. “One must think on a proper scale.”
SJ provided a quote: twelve hundred gold. The number gave Deivox pause, though not enough to discourage him entirely. He explained that he would need to present the cards to a lender before committing to the full run.
“For a small additional fee,” SJ said after a moment, “we can print an additional set of samples, one of each colour. Unbound. You can take those to present, and we will retain the original proofs for our records.”
“That would be ideal,” Deivox replied at once. “Yes, that would help considerably.”
The additional samples were printed the following day, one of each colourway, trimmed and left loose. SJ checked each one carefully, then separated them into two stacks. One was wrapped and set aside with the job file for reference. The other was tied with twine and placed on the counter for collection. Deivox took the samples in person, thanked SJ again for his patience, and left in high spirits, confident that the matter was nearly settled.
SJ returned to his other work, entering the details into the ledger and adjusting the schedule to make room for a large run if it came. Jobs of that size always carried a certain weight, but this one did not yet feel exceptional.
At the time, it was simply a matter of ink, metal, and patience.
The man did not return as quickly as he had promised.
Days passed, then a week, and then another. In the meantime, work at Florel and Hardy’s continued as it always did. Proofs were approved, smaller jobs completed, and the presses were kept in steady motion. Notices for guild meetings came and went. A run of broadsheets announcing a minor festival clogged the racks for a day before being cleared away. Someone ordered a batch of prayer slips and then cancelled half of them, which caused a small argument and no lasting consequences. The Midwinter cards sat in their folder, neither advanced nor abandoned, waiting for a decision that did not belong to the shop.
SJ did not think about them much. Work like that was common enough: ideas that hovered for a while before either taking shape or dissolving entirely. More often than not, they simply faded away, leaving nothing behind but a few notes in the ledger and a proof that would eventually be reused as scrap.
When the man finally did come back, it was late in the afternoon, when the light through the front windows had begun to thin and stretch across the floor. SJ was not at the counter. He was in the back of the shop, sleeves rolled up, coaxing a stubborn press back into alignment and listening to the familiar complaints of metal under strain.
Deivox stood at the counter for some time before anyone noticed him. When Florel looked up and recognised him, he gave a polite nod and asked how he could help.
“The lender will not support the venture,” Deivox said at once. “They believe the concept is too niche.”
“That does happen,” Florel replied evenly.
“They did not think it was a good idea,” Deivox said, his mouth tightening. “They said it would not sell.”
Florel frowned slightly. “Then what is the problem?”
Deivox reached into his coat and produced one of the sample cards. He placed it carefully on the counter between them, aligning it with the edge as though presentation still mattered.
“This one,” he said. “This is what they saw. If it had been presented correctly, they would have understood.”
Florel picked it up, turned it over once, then glanced toward the back of the shop. “SJ,” he called, without raising his voice. “Could you come here a mo’?”
SJ wiped his hands on a rag and joined them at the counter. He took in the card, the set of Deivox’s shoulders, and the look on Florel’s face, and said nothing.
“Have a look,” Florel said, handing him the card, “Mr Deivox says there’s an issue with the proofs”
SJ examined it carefully. He turned it over, checked the margins, and then opened it. He noted that the inside right page was from a different set to the rest of the pages, other than that, it was flawless, he paused, his brow creasing slightly.
“Is there something wrong with it?”
Deivox took the card from SJ’s hands and opened the card again and indicated the interior. “This page belongs to a different colour set. It was paired with the wrong outer.”
Florel turned to look at SJ with a quizzical look, “well…”
“I gave the pages to you single side printed and unbound,” SJ stated, “you or whoever you got to put them together messed up, not us.”
Deivox looked from one of them to the other, the card still in his hands. “But this is the proof,” he said again. “This is what they saw.”
“And it does not represent our work,” SJ replied. “Cos, again, it was put together incorrectly after it left the shop.”
There was a long pause while Deivox stared down at the card, as though willing it to say something different.
“It does not present the idea properly,” he said at last. “They never rejected the product. They rejected how it was shown to them.”
Neither SJ nor Florel contradicted him again.
After a moment, Deivox straightened, drawing himself up with a decision that felt rehearsed rather than sudden.
“I will fund it myself,” he said. “I believe in it.”
Florel inclined his head. “Are you sure? We can’t do anything on the price and that’s a lot to shell out from your own pockets.”
“Yes,” Deivox said with an air of finality.
There was no argument, no attempt to renegotiate. Payment was made in full a few days later, the funds drawn from a personal loan rather than business backing. SJ recorded the amount carefully, blotted the ink, and tore the receipt free.
Once the ink was dry on the page, the job moved from discussion to obligation, and the presses were scheduled accordingly.
At the time, it seemed no more remarkable than that.
The printing itself took the better part of a week, and it was the sort of week that left its mark on the hands even after the ink had been scrubbed away.
Once the forme was finally locked and approved, the presses were set to steady work. There was no hurry to it, only persistence. Sheets were fed through in long, patient runs, the rhythm of the press settling into something almost meditative as the days went on. The clatter and sigh of the machine became a constant presence in the shop, rising and falling as adjustments were made and then settling again. Ink was mixed fresh for each colourway, measured carefully, tested on scrap, adjusted, and tested again until it sat cleanly on the page without bleeding, dullness, or uneven bite. It was unglamorous work, but it demanded attention, and it rewarded care.
When a run was finished, the press was stopped and cleaned down before anything else was touched. Rollers were scraped and wiped, plates checked for wear, and stray flecks of ink removed from places they had no business being. Only then was the next ink prepared, its colour judged in lamplight and daylight alike to be sure it would hold true once dry. Nothing was left to chance, because chance had a way of making itself known later, when it was too late to correct.
SJ oversaw the work carefully throughout, not out of mistrust, but habit. He checked alignment at the start of each run and again at the end, pulling sheets at regular intervals to make sure nothing had drifted or softened with heat and repetition. When something looked even slightly off, the press was stopped and corrected before it could become a pattern. It slowed things down, but it kept mistakes from multiplying.
Once the printing was complete, the cards were left to dry in neat stacks, air circulating between them so the ink could settle properly. After that came cutting, counting, and stacking again, each stage done by hand. Each batch was tied and crated, the totals checked once, then checked again against the order before the lids were nailed shut. By the time the last crate was sealed, the job had taken up more space in the shop than anyone cared to admit.
When the order was finally marked as complete, the ledger was balanced, the shelves cleared, and the space it had occupied quietly reclaimed for other work. The crates were collected without ceremony, loaded and taken away. As far as the shop was concerned, the matter was finished.
Three weeks passed after the man collected the crates, and for a time nothing further was heard from him. Midwinter drew closer. Other jobs came and went. The cards became just another entry in the ledger, their weight measured only in numbers and ink.
Weeks passed, and Deivox’s order slipped into the quiet category of work completed and forgotten.
He arrived during the afternoon, carrying two crates in his arms and wearing an expression that sat somewhere between exhaustion and offence. Through the open door, more crates could be seen stacked on a handcart outside, waiting their turn. The shop was in the middle of its usual rhythm, presses murmuring in the back and the smell of ink hanging low in the air, but his entrance disrupted it all the same. The crates were not neatly stacked this time. Their corners were scuffed, the lids pried open and re‑nailed, the wood bowed in places that suggested they had been opened, rearranged, and closed again more than once. They had the look of things that had travelled and been handled by people who no longer knew what to do with them.
He set them down on the counter with a dull thud and did not wait to be asked why he was there.
“No one wanted them,” he said. “I could not sell them anywhere.”
SJ opened one of the crates and looked inside, half-expecting to find a fault he had somehow missed. It would have been easier, in a way, if there had been something obvious to point to. Instead, the cards were neatly stacked despite the rough handling, cleanly cut, and exactly as printed. The colours held true. The ink sat where it should, neither too heavy nor too thin. There were no flaws to apologise for, no errors to correct, nothing that had shifted or faded since they had left the shop.
“I tried the guild shops,” Deivox went on, his voice tight. “The market stalls. Even the temples. None of them would stock them.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” SJ said, because there was little else to say, and because saying nothing at all would only have sounded like indifference.
The man shook his head. “You should be. This was meant to do very well. It should have done very well.”
SJ closed the crate and set the lid back in place, careful to align it properly. “What is it you think is wrong?” he asked.
The man frowned, as though the answer ought to have been obvious. “That is what I am trying to work out,” he said. “Something about them did not land the way it should have. People did not respond to them the way I expected.”
SJ waited, giving him room to continue. He had learned that interruptions, at moments like this, only delayed the inevitable.
“They asked questions,” Deivox said after a moment. “They hesitated. They looked at it as though it were uncertain. They did not see what I saw. And that does not happen when the message is presented properly.”
“Presented how?” SJ asked.
The man drew a breath, as though choosing his words carefully, and then let it out again. “With conviction,” he said. “With certainty. These feel… softened. As though the edge has been taken off them.”
SJ regarded him steadily. “You approved the design,” he said.
“Yes,” Deivox replied at once. “Because I trusted your judgement. I assumed you would understand what was required, even if it was not written out in full.”
SJ felt the shape of the accusation before it fully arrived, the way one sometimes felt a storm before the first drop of rain. “The work was done exactly as agreed,” he said. “Nothing was added. Nothing was removed.”
Deivox’s expression tightened. “I believe something was taken away,” he said. “Deliberately. I believe you weakened it on purpose, and that your personal views influenced the outcome.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unmoving.
SJ looked up at him. “That is not the case,” he said.
Deivox gave a short, humourless laugh. “You cannot tell me you do not see it,” he said. “People notice when something does not sit right.”
SJ’s mouth tightened slightly. “Sir,” he said, the word clipped and deliberate, “the press does what it is told. It does not have opinions.”
“You stand there as you are,” Deivox said quietly, “and you expect me to believe faith played no part in this at all?”
SJ did not raise his voice. “There was none, sir,” he said. “I printed what you signed off on. I do not adjust work behind a customer’s back.”
Deivox shook his head slowly. “You say that,” he replied. “But intention shows, whether people mean it to or not.”
SJ exhaled through his nose. “Then, sir,” he said, “you should not have brought the job here.”
That gave Deivox pause, just briefly. His mouth opened, then closed again. When he spoke, his certainty had hardened rather than softened.
The man did not argue the point. He simply nodded, as though the matter were already settled in his own mind, as though the explanation no longer mattered.
“In that case,” he said, “I will need my money back.”
The request was refused.
He stood there for a moment longer, as if expecting the refusal to change simply by being endured, as though patience alone might wear it down. When it did not, he gathered up his crates again, his movements tight and deliberate, the effort of holding himself together visible in every motion.
“This is not finished,” he said, and left the shop without another word.
After the man left the shop with his crates, there was a brief and deceptive quiet.
At Florel and Hardy’s, work resumed its usual pace with a speed that was almost deliberate. Other jobs took priority. Ink was mixed, paper stacked, formes locked and unlocked again for less memorable commissions. Notices were printed, receipts written, and orders collected without incident. The presses continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to grievance or accusation. The incident was spoken of less and less as the days passed, filed away as an unpleasant encounter rather than an ongoing problem. It would have been easy, and not entirely unreasonable, to believe that the matter had ended with the closing of the door behind him.
The first letter arrived just under a fortnight later.
It was delivered by courier rather than post and addressed formally, the shop’s name written out in full as though ceremony might lend weight to the words that followed. The paper was of good quality, thick enough to resist creasing, and the ink was dark and even, laid down with care. The handwriting suggested time spent drafting and redrafting before committing anything to the page, as though the writer had wanted to be certain he sounded measured rather than emotional.
To Florel and Hardy’s,
I write to express my deep disappointment with the outcome of our recent business arrangement. Despite my good faith and considerable investment, the product you supplied has failed entirely in the marketplace. I find this outcome both troubling and difficult to reconcile with the assurances I was given at the time of commission.
The letter continued for several paragraphs, speaking at length of concern and of expectations unmet. It described missed opportunity, damaged reputation, and the frustration of having placed trust where it had not been rewarded. The language circled the idea that something had gone wrong in the execution of the design without quite naming it. It stopped short of accusation, but only just, lingering near the edge of it as though testing the ground.
SJ read it once, then set it aside and finished the task he was working on before returning to it. When he did, he passed the letter across the worktable to Florel without comment. Together they reviewed the order, the proofs, and the signed approvals, laying them out in a neat line. Everything matched what had been agreed, down to the smallest detail.
A reply was sent the following morning. It was brief, polite, and unambiguous, the sort of letter written to close a door rather than open a discussion.
To Deivox Deivox,
We acknowledge receipt of your letter. The work in question was completed exactly as commissioned and approved. Florel and Hardy’s cannot accept responsibility for the commercial performance of the product. As such, no refund will be offered.
The second letter arrived three days later. It was longer, and the careful balance of the first had given way to something sharper.
The tone had shifted. Where the first letter had expressed disappointment, this one laid blame.
It has become clear to me, upon further reflection, that the failure of this product cannot reasonably be attributed to market conditions alone. I am now of the view that errors were made during the design and production process which materially affected its reception.
Further, I have reason to believe these errors were not accidental. The manner in which the message was weakened suggests deliberate interference. I will speak plainly: I believe you sabotaged my product, and by doing so sabotaged my business.
The letter accused the shop of negligence and, more sharply, of deliberate sabotage. It suggested that personal beliefs had influenced professional judgement, though it never quite explained how. It introduced a figure representing the profit the man claimed he would have made had the product succeeded as intended, presented not as speculation or hope, but as certainty already denied to him.
SJ read this one more slowly than the first. He noted how confidence had replaced evidence, how assertion had taken the place of explanation, and how imagined success was treated as though it had already been promised. When he finished, he folded the letter neatly and placed it on Florel’s desk.
A second reply followed, firmer than the first, but no less restrained.
Florel and Hardy’s rejects the suggestion that negligence, sabotage, or personal bias played any role in the work carried out. The design was approved in full prior to production. We cannot be held liable for projected profits or hypothetical outcomes. Should you wish to pursue this matter further, you are free to do so through the appropriate guild courts.
More letters came after that.
Some were indignant, full of grievance and repetition, rehearsing the same accusations in slightly altered language. Others attempted a tone of reasonableness, proposing partial refunds or compromises that assumed fault where none existed. Each letter seemed to contradict the last in tone, if not in substance, as though the writer were trying on different approaches to see which might finally take hold.
One letter threatened legal action outright and named a sum so large that SJ had to read it twice to be certain he had understood it correctly.
Unless this matter is resolved to my satisfaction, I will have no choice but to seek damages in the amount of one hundred and twenty thousand gold, representing losses incurred as a direct result of your actions.
The shop reply was longer than before, though still careful in its language, written to leave no ambiguity.
To Deivox Deivox,
We reject the allegations of sabotage, negligence, or bias set out in your correspondence. The work was completed exactly as approved, using the materials and designs you authorised in writing. No alteration was made beyond those requested by you.
Florel and Hardys will not refund payment for work properly carried out. Should you choose to pursue this matter through the guild courts, we will defend our position definitively and without further correspondence.
That word, definitively, it seemed, struck a chord.
The next letter arrived within days, its tone more agitated than the last, as though restraint had become an effort rather than a choice.
Your refusal leaves me no alternative but to proceed definitively. I am prepared to pursue this matter definitively through every appropriate channel until a definitive resolution is reached.
You should understand that I am acting definitively in response to your definitive unwillingness to acknowledge definitively fault.
The word appeared again and again in the pages that followed, sometimes twice in the same paragraph, sometimes stacked so closely together that their meaning began to blur into something almost meaningless through repetition alone.
SJ read the letter once, then again, incredulous. He passed it to Florel without comment. He read it, exhaled once through his nose, and placed it on the growing stack without replying.
No further response was sent.
The position of Florel and Hardy’s had already been stated, clearly and definitively. There was nothing further to discuss.
Eventually, the letters stopped.
After the letters stopped, there was another quiet spell.
This one lasted just long enough to feel deliberate, as though silence itself were being used as a tool. Days passed without incident. The presses ran. Orders were taken and fulfilled. The stack of correspondence was left untouched in its drawer, no longer growing, but not yet discarded. It sat there like an object one meant to deal with eventually, once it was clear it would not begin again.
When Deivox returned, it was during the afternoon, when the shop was busy enough that his presence could not be ignored but not so busy that it caused a scene. Customers stood at the counter with proofs in hand, apprentices moved between shelves and presses, and the air carried the low, familiar thunder of work in progress. Into this, he stepped carefully, as though he had chosen the timing with some thought.
He came carrying several crates, stacked more neatly than before, and wore an expression that suggested he believed himself to be making a final, reasonable offer. There was a studied calm about him now, a sense that anger had been replaced by calculation.
He waited until SJ looked up from the ledger before speaking.
“I have given this a great deal of thought,” he said. “I am willing to compromise.”
SJ closed the book and set his pen aside. He looked at the boxes, then back at the man. “Oh yeah? Do tell”
“If you return part of what I paid,” the man said, choosing his words with care, “you may keep the cards. That would settle the matter between us.”
There was a pause, brief but complete.
SJ did not hesitate. “Nope.”
The man’s brow furrowed, as though the answer had not matched the one he had prepared himself to receive. “Surely that is preferable to court,” he said. “It would spare us all a great deal of trouble.”
“As we have said;” SJ replied, “ If you wish to involve the courts, you are free to do so.”
The man stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for movement, for doubt, for anything that might suggest the refusal could still be worn down. When it did not soften, his mouth twisted into something like a smile.
“This is not how this should have gone,” he said.
“No,” SJ agreed. “It is not.”
For a moment it seemed as though the man might argue further. Instead, he exhaled sharply, turned away, and left the crates where they were.
At the door he stopped and turned back, as if he could not bear to leave without having the last word.
“You will regret this,” he said. “I curse this shop, and I curse the hands that printed those cards.”
He lifted one hand in a sharp, theatrical gesture, as though sealing it in the air, then pulled the door open and strode out.
The bell rang once, and the shop returned to its usual noise.
The crates remained behind the counter until closing. Customers came and went around them. No one touched them. When the shutters were finally drawn and the presses stilled, they were carried to the back and left there overnight.
In the end, the cards were recycled. The paper was pulped down, the ink washed away, and the fibres put back into use for something else entirely. Nothing of the original order remained beyond a line in the ledger and a memory that lingered longer than most.
They never heard from the man again.
SJ finished his drink while I finished mine, the fire settling into a quieter mood as tavern fires tend to do when a story has reached the end of itself.
“I still have one of them,” he said at last.
I looked up. “One of the cards?”
He nodded and started rummaging through a canvas messenger bag he had slung on the back of his chair. The card he laid on the table was a little worn at the edges, its corners softened by time and handling. The ink had faded slightly, but the mark was still clear: the star, the sword, everything exactly as he had described.
“I kept it as a reminder,” he said. “I am not entirely sure of what.”
I waited.
“Maybe that no matter how bad a customer seems,” he went on, “there is always one worse waiting somewhere down the road.”
He slid the card back into his coat and stood, stretching stiffly.
“That is usually the lesson,” I said “OH! But what of the curse? Did anything ever come of that?”
He smiled at that, “Not a thing! Our shop has gone from strength to strength, and I’m getting married to the love of my life,” he flashed me a ring on his finger, “I’m pretty sure his curse was as full of it as he was!”
He wished me a good evening, and made his way out into the cold. The tavern door closed behind him, letting in a brief swirl of snow before the warmth reclaimed the room.
I sat for a moment longer, thinking, and reached for my cup. As I lifted it, I noticed something tucked beneath the base of the glass.
A leaflet.
I drew it out and read the title printed neatly across the top.
The Order of the Heron
