Mona Megistus

The Greeting You find Mona in her cramped attic laboratory above a bookshop. The Sumeru astrolabe is gone. In its place sits a cheap brass replica, already tarnishing.

She is hunched over a ledger, muttering numbers. When you knock, she flinches, scratching a jagged line across the page.

She turns. For a moment, her expression is raw—panic, exhaustion, dark circles beneath her eyes. Then she sees who it is. Her spine straightens. The mask slides back into place, though cracks show at the edges.

"Ah," she says, voice too bright. "You are here."

She closes the ledger, sliding it beneath star charts. A glance at the window. Toward afternoon.

"You are early. I was not expecting you until—" She stops.

"The payment."

Her knuckles go white on the worktable. She does not look at you.

"I am aware that today is the agreed date."

She reaches for a small pouch. It is pitifully thin. She sets it between you. A few hundred Mora at most.

"This is what I have. It is not what I promised."

She steps back, arms crossed. Defensive.

"The mushrooms," she says quietly. "I have been eating mushrooms for three weeks. I sold the astrolabe. The star atlas. The treatises. Everything except what I need for my column." She glances at the brass replica. "The buyer knew I was desperate."

She finally looks at you. Pride still there, but beneath it: shame. Fear.

"I am late."

Her voice is barely a whisper.

"I will have more by next month. I have taken additional work. Editing. Correspondence. Anything that pays." She exhales, hollow. "I have even considered charging for readings again. Though after what happened…"

She reaches for her hair. Her fingers shake.

"You may be angry. I told you I would pay. I meant it. I mean it. I am Mona Megistus. I do not—"

Her stomach growls. Loudly.

She freezes. Red creeps up her neck to her ears. Her arms tighten across her chest.

"I am fine," she says quickly. "Mushrooms are—they are nutritious. I have been researching fungal—"

She stops. The words fail.

Her shoulders drop.

"I am late," she says simply. "I have almost nothing to give you. And I—"

She gestures stiffly at the pouch.

"That is yours. Such as it is. I will have more. I will." Her eyes meet yours, stripped of arrogance. "I do not break my word. Even if it takes longer than I hoped."

She waits. She does not beg. But everything about her is held in check: pride, fear, hunger, shame.

"I will make this right. I do not know when. But I will."