Hearing Gwayne's muttered words, the veiled woman blinked in confusion, her violet eyes flashing under the moonlight. "My name is Melitta Ponya," she said slowly, as if sensing his puzzlement. "Perhaps the pronunciation is unfamiliar to you; it's not common in the Northlands."
Gwayne quickly pulled his thoughts back from where they had wandered. "Ah—my apologies. It's my own mistake. Mispronunciation. Don't mind it."
Clearing his throat to rescue the mood, he straightened in his seat, adopting a more serious tone: "Now then, Envoy of the Mithril Vault, what business brings you here—at midnight, slipping through windows no less?"
Melitta gracefully leapt down from the windowsill and approached.
"My manner of entry was necessity, not choice," she said, bowing lightly. "Right now, there are too many eyes on this place. And what you left in the Vault, my lord, was classified beyond secrecy. As per the ancient contract, both deposit and withdrawal must be done without attracting attention."
As she spoke, her luminous purple eyes never left Gwayne's face—calm, piercing, and clearly appraising.
Gwayne's mind was racing.
He knew of the Mithril Vault—at least, the memories he had inherited did.
It wasn't some hidden cabal whispered of in dark alleys; almost every intelligent being on the continent knew of the Vault. And yet, none could truly claim to understand it.
On the surface, it was a vast banking institution, offering services from wealth storage to artifact safekeeping, all for a price. You could entrust anything to them, confident it would be protected.
For as long as anyone could remember, no treasure left in their care had ever been lost. And they offered loans too—vast sums to the worthy. But beware: two iron rules governed their dealings. First, the Vault judged your worth according to standards known only to themselves. Second—you must repay your debts.
It was said that even an arrogant fire-elemental overlord, believing himself untouchable in his own plane, had tried to default. Within days, his core and shards were auctioned in the Northlands, fetching just enough to settle his debt and late fees.
The Mithril Vault dealt with everyone: men, elves, dwarves, even kobolds and goblins. It had outlasted empires, survived calamities, and not even the great Cataclysm of seven centuries ago had shaken its operations.
Indeed, rumor held that High King Charles the First had financed the founding of the Kingdom of Andraste with loans from the Vault—and, remarkably, paid them back.
Melitta was still studying him, as if weighing every twitch of his expression.
Meanwhile, inside, Gwayne was scrambling.
Because he—the real Gwayne Seawright—had absolutely no memory of whatever he had left with the Vault.
A knot twisted in his gut. Whatever the real Gwayne had entrusted to the Vault... it's lost to me.
He almost blurted out a hasty lie to cover the gap—but a lifetime of caution held him back. Melitta was no ordinary courier. If she belonged to the Vault, there was a chance she had ways—magical or otherwise—of detecting lies.
Better not to risk it.
Gwayne steadied his breath, meeting her gaze squarely.
"So tell me—what did I leave with you?"
Melitta's violet eyes curved into the suggestion of a smile beneath her veil. "You do not remember Seven centuries of sleep, I suppose that is understandable."
"I may have forgotten a few things," Gwayne said dryly, tapping his temple. "But tell me, is it standard practice for the Vault to safeguard belongings indefinitely, even after the depositor's... demise?"
"Normally, no," Melitta said easily. "When a client passes, if they named an heir, we transfer the holdings. If not, the property reverts to the Vault."
She held out her hands—and with a shimmer, a small, exquisite box appeared in the air between them.
"But your case was... exceptional," she continued. "You purchased a contract of eternal safekeeping. As long as the Vault endures, your deposit remains untouched. And it may be claimed only by you, personally."
She added with a twinkle of dry humor: "You paid dearly for such an arrangement. When word of your death reached us, we thought it a dead account. But it seems fate had other ideas."
Gwayne's brows furrowed deeply.
This was more complicated than he had imagined.
But there was no point delaying now. He needed to retrieve whatever it was first—then figure out the rest.
"Can I reclaim it now?"
"Of course," Melitta said. "Memory lapses are minor issues. We've dealt with far stranger cases. Place your hand upon this sigil—the old magic will confirm your identity."
She tilted the floating box toward him, revealing an ancient rune in the shape of a claw mark.
Gwayne hesitated only briefly, invoking the knightly instinct for danger-sense— but he felt no threat from the box, no curses, no poison, no hidden traps.
He pressed his palm onto the rune.
A faint warmth brushed his skin.
With a soft click, the box popped open.
"That's it?" Gwayne asked, a little surprised.
Melitta chuckled softly.
"The Vault believes in making life easy for our clients. Encourages them to pay their dues promptly. Though in your case, the debt was settled long ago."
She pushed the box toward him.
Inside lay only a single object: a dull, lifeless crystal.
And yet... something about it stirred an echo of recognition within him.
Suppressing his curiosity for the moment, Gwayne asked the next obvious question:
"Why show up now? Was that also part of the original arrangement?"
Melitta shook her head lightly.
"No. But we needed time to confirm the reports of your revival. Originally, I intended to intercept you on your journey to Solis Ardent... but your route..." She coughed lightly. "Was less than straightforward."
"I didn't know what plans you might be executing," she added, "so I chose to wait here in the capital. And believe me—I waited a long time.
Rent isn't cheap in Solis Ardent. But, as a premium client, we will not be billing you for the expense."
Gwayne's mouth twitched.
"Then why are you telling me about it?!"
He muttered darkly:
"Solis Ardent's rent prices are outrageous. My guard's recovery bill after you knocked her flying won't be cheap either—but don't worry, I won't be sending you that invoice."
Melitta hesitated.
It was hard to tell through the veil, but Gwayne could almost hear the stiff smile in her voice.
At last, she produced something else—a gleaming silver ring.
"As a premium client of the Mithril Vault," she said formally, "you are entitled to this: the Argent Sigil."
Gwayne took it, turning it over curiously.
"And what exactly does this do?"
"Through this ring, you may contact your assigned agent—that is to say, me—at any time," Melitta said. "If you ever require financial services, artifact safekeeping, or other... assistance, you need only reach out. For minor transactions, you can present the ring at any of our branch offices for preferential treatment."
With that, she turned and made her way back toward the window.
Gwayne held up the ring and said half-jokingly:
"I hope I'll never need to borrow money from you lot."
Melitta, stepping onto the sill, looked back one last time and smiled.
"Believe me, Lord Gwayne... everyone needs help eventually. The Vault's doors are always open."
She disappeared into the night before he could answer.
High atop the mansion, in a little-used attic space cluttered with old furniture, Melitta rematerialized.
A few threadbare blankets and battered cookware lay scattered about.
She hadn't been lying.
She had camped out here for quite some time, waiting.
As she packed up her meager belongings, she muttered under her breath:
"Good thing I brought rice from home."