“I apologize, Councilwoman Mishra. As I was just about to mention before Mister—er—” he flapped a hand vaguely in Splice’s direction, clearly unwilling to assign him a name or title. Splice gave a single, small nod.
“Before this gentleman arrived,” the lawyer continued, voice tight with effort, “there was… a contingency clause. Added to Mr. Truckenham’s will approximately seven months ago.”
Splice leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers beneath his nose. He’d seen that once in a television show. He liked it. He liked it even more now that he finally had cause to use it, as it seemed to land as an elegant sign of dominance as effectively as it had on screen.
The lawyer pressed on, sweat now visibly collecting along his hairline. “Instructions for his other assets remain the same, but there is an exception that pertains specifically to his majority share in the Green Holdings.”
He paused, adjusting a page that didn’t need adjusting. “One that applies in the event of his death by… unnatural causes.”
There was an audible intake of breath around the table.
“That can’t be,” snapped Councilwoman Mishra, her voice sharp as glass. “If one of us dies, their share defaults back to the trust. Equal redistribution among the remaining members. That’s how it was set up.”
“That wasirrevocable!” barked Councilwoman Idris.
“Yes, that would normally be correct,” the lawyer said, dabbing at his forehead with a trembling hand. “But because Mr. Truckenham held the majority share, it placed him in a different legal category.”
He rustled through a stack of papers and winced as one slipped free and fluttered to the floor. “That’s lined out under the Binding Stakeholder Provision from the original agreement, section thirteen, subsection nine.”
“What thehellsdoes that mean?” spluttered Councilman Swale, his voice rising into an unflattering register.
The lawyer looked like he wanted to vanish into his own briefcase. “It means that because of his majority stake, he had the legal right to designate an outside successor for his share if his death occurred under magical duress or criminal circumstance.”
In unison, every head in the room turned to Splice.
With slow, deliberate precision, he raised one eyebrow. It was just as effective as the finger-steepling. Maybe more, based on the susurration of surprise and unease that whispered around the table in response.
Hewas not surprised, of course. This was exactly what the letter had said: a summons to the new majority shareholder of the Green Holdings to discuss next steps, legal realignments, and whatever civic absurdities followed the death of a stakeholder.
Splice had been too angry and flushed with bark-splitting resentment and his god’s pain to dwell on the implications.
But now, slightly removed from the heat of it, watching the trustees flail and sputter around the table like startled livestock… he found himself rather enjoying the whole situation.
Councilwoman Idris gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Swale started blustering, his voice pitched too high with indignation. Voices layered over each other like competing incantations. In the corner, the mousy woman’s face had gone sheet white, her pencil clutched so tightly between fingers that it snapped in two. Councilwoman Mishra looked ready to either storm out or sink to the floor in a faint.
Splice tuned out the noise as the lawyer cringingly slid a folder across the table. He flipped it open, eyes skimming past the ornamental formatting and bloated legalese until they caught on the clause that mattered.
In the event of my passing by magical or suspicious cause, I hereby name the Thornfather (also known as the Root-Hollow Crown, the Verdant Sovereign, and the Last Witness of the Old Pact) as recipient of my full stake and legal steward of the Green Holdings, including but not limited to my majority share, access rights, historical protections, ritual purview, and standing vote on rezoning and development under the trust charter, version 3B.
No ambiguity. No legal loopholes. No civic slight-of-hand. The majority of the Green Holdings belonged, now, to Mycor.
“What’s he going to do with it?” Councilwoman Mishra snapped, voice cutting clean through the din. “Grow moss on the sidewalk? He’s a fertility spirit, not a landowner.”
The realization hit Splice like a dropped stone through water as the lawyer’s words rang suddenly in his head:added approximately seven months ago.
Quickly, he did the math. That had been sometime in October.
The same time Mycor, who only stirred for births and deaths, awoke in the atrium of Greymarket Towers.
Truckenham’s added clause hadn’t merely cracked open a civic headache. The laying of it on paper had unlatched something older, rousing a slumbering god and shackling him with civic chains.
The voices of the council suddenly became as unbearable as a swarm of bees.
I need space,Splice thought frantically.I need to breathe and find out what hells I’ve walked into.
“This is an outrage!” Councilwoman Mishra snapped. “We meet with Ashenvale Ventures tomorrow, and now this clause drops into our laps? Another claimant? This is unprecedented! It will turn everything on its head!”
The room erupted.
