"Tell me boy, what experience do you have? What did you do for work?" Zaenith asks as we leave the bathhouse, heading back toward the market square. The streets are livelier now, bustling with the activity of merchants setting up stalls and townsfolk going about their business under the rising sun.

  "Rose taught me the basics of alchemy. As for what I did for work, I... made some coin searching various places and selling what I found," I reply. It's a vague answer, but an accurate one.

  "You're a looter, then," she says flatly, her tone carrying a trace of disdain. "Hardly a trade Rose would've sanctioned. Could you not make a living off of what she taught you?"

  I shake my head, annoyed. "The villagers didn't trust me, they barely trusted Rose enough to buy from her. But at least they believed her skilled."

  She arches a brow, her voice carrying a needling challenge. "So you turned to looting?"

  I shoot a glare back at her. "That's right. It's how I survived before Rose found me and brought me to Mistvale. After I left you."

  Zaenith looks away indifferently. "Well, what I'll have you do won't be much different. Though instead of scavenging corpses for scraps, you'll find things I need."

  We reach a well-kept building at the far end of the market square. Its clean exterior stands in stark contrast to the weathered stalls and modest homes around it. Zaenith climbs the short stone steps, kicking the snow off her boots before unlocking the door.

  The moment we step inside, the warmth hits me, along with a familiar mixture of smells, earthy and yet faintly sweet. The interior is even more impressive, shelves line the walls, each packed tightly with bottles and vials containing liquids of every imaginable color. Some glow a bright red, others shimmer a deep blue, while many are an opaque, murky greenish-black.

  Potions.

  Not mere ointment, salves or medicines, like I'd have found in Rose's house. But true potions.

  The sight of them fills me with disgust, memories of my brothers and I, imbibing them by the dozen, triggering a flare of rage in my heart.

  "This is my new apothecary," Zaenith begins, her voice tinged with pride as she gestures around the room. "Here, I mix and create the potions, poultices, and medicines for this town. And also conduct my research."

  "It's smaller than the last." I say, a little petulantly. After all it’s still significantly larger than Rose’s. "Why did you move?"

  Zaenith dismisses my question with a wave of her hand. "Isolation had it's benefits, but a shop in a town like this is far more lucrative." she adds with a gruff tone, "And without you or your brothers present, there was no longer a need to hide."

  I continue to look around, curious at the many tools she possesses. One is of particular interest to me....

  A weapon that stands over seven feet tall, a monstrous lance bulkier than any weapon I’ve seen, crafted purely of a strange shimmering metal. A wide-barrelled chamber is built into the shaft above the spearhead, blackened with soot, its mouth big enough to swallow a man’s fist. Vents run along the metal like furnace slats, and by its hilt is a mechanical structure too complicated for me to even guess the workings of.

  Beside it rests a shield, massive, round-edged, and thick as a door, tall enough to cover a man from neck to knee. No crest, no decoration, just solid, scarred steel. I can’t even imagine the strength that would be required to wield it together with that lance.

  “How have you not been run out of town by the church with all these items here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  Zaenith snorts. “This is no backwater village. The people here appreciate the value I bring and reward me appropriately. Not that I need their money.”

  With that, she reaches under the counter, pulling out a basket of dried herbs and an empty sack. "Now, you wanted work. Find me herbs that look like these," she says, tossing a few sprigs into the sack as an example. "They’re essential for my potions. You’ll need to search outside the town walls, past the fields along the shore. I’m sure a seasoned looter like you can handle it."

  The slight sneer in her voice makes it clear she doesn't think much of my profession, but I can also tell she’s serious, expecting my skills to bear results. "The young men here are too cowardly to venture too far from the town." She waves her hand dismissively. "Rumors of wolves and brigands attacking travelers on the road. I’ve had to gather these herbs myself for years. But with you here, I can save myself the trouble."

  She hands me the sack, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes it clear this is no idle task. "Fill this sack with those herbs," she instructs, her tone sharp. "You will likely need to make several trips, so take the time you need. But understand that you will not see coin until the sack is full."

  "What sort of coin might I expect for my efforts?" I ask, more curious than hopeful.

  "Twenty coppers, if you fill it as specified." Zaenith replies.

  Twenty? My eyes widen in disbelief. I’ve never made that much for such a simple job. The promise of payment stirs a hunger in me, it always does, and I eagerly snatch the sack from her.

  "But don't fill it with worthless weeds boy. Make sure they match the sample inside, or you get nothing." She dismisses me with a curt wave, her gaze lingering for a moment as if to reinforce the seriousness of her command before turning back and venturing deeper into her shop.

  "Twenty coins..." I mutter to myself, still not quite able to believe it. As I step out of the apothecary, considering the money I’m about to make, I recall the scraps of loot I brought with me from the village. The bag still sits on the floor of Zaenith's house.

  I’d nearly forgotten about them, but now that they come to mind, I can’t help but wonder how much they might fetch.

  I return to Zaenith's house, retrieving the bag from where it rests, and begin sifting through its contents. Four items in total, each carefully plucked various locations.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The first item is a flowered tunic, slightly tattered but of surprisingly good quality, far better than the rough, poorly stitched garments most of us wear. I took it from a long-dead man, I found on the road. The smell wasn’t easy to get out.

  The second item is a comb, intricately carved from smooth bone. It’s decent work, elegant even, and useless to a hairless skeleton.

  The third is a hollowed-out ram's horn, I assume it was used for drinking. A curious find; I’m not sure how much a thing like this sells for, but I’ll take what I can get.

  The fourth and final item is of course the iron pendant I found in the Mistvale crypt. It isn’t the prettiest thing, but the iron itself surely has some value. I hope so anyway, given how much trouble it’s caused me.

  “Argh! Fuck!” I yelp, as I cut my hand on one of its jagged edges again, the blood dripping on the iron. “Shit. Again?” I exclaim, wiping the pendant clean of both fresh and dried blood. “Who the hell designed this thing? Wearing it’s a bloody nightmare.”

  I lick my wound, sucking out some of the blood, hoping the small cut doesn’t fester, that I cleaned the venom from it thoroughly enough.

  “Fucking thing, I’ll be glad to be rid of you.” I place the pendant and the other items into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Better head out.” The general store is nearby, I should be able to offload these trinkets there.

  Once that’s done, Zaenith's task awaits.

  The general store looms ahead, standing apart from the chaotic market district. Around me, stalls of every size and shape can be found. Merchants shout over each other, hawking their wares with desperate enthusiasm, everything from dried meats and pungent spices to rough-hewn tools and faded fabrics.

  Above the noise and clutter, the store stands apart, its stone walls sturdy and clean, the polished wooden door a stark contrast to the patched canvas and warped planks of the stalls behind me. Above the entrance hangs a painted sign bearing the name 'Draegmoor's Hall' in ornate script. The place exudes a sense of wealth, its opulence making the surrounding market feel even more ramshackle.

  I push the door open, and a small bell chimes overhead. Inside, the warmth from a crackling hearth wraps around me, carrying with it the mingled scents of cedar and cured leather. The shelves are meticulously organized, lined with goods ranging from tools to bolts of cloth, jars of preserved foods, and a few glittering trinkets that seem out of place in such a practical establishment.

  Behind the counter stands the shopkeeper, a thin man with a handsome but aged face, framed by thinning golden hair. His clothes are fine, too fine for someone of this humble town, and his expression twists into an appraising glare as his eyes fall on me.

  "A peasant," he drawls, his voice dripping with disdain. "What brings you to my store? Hoping to trade a few of your turnips for trinkets?"

  Another snob. Wonderful.

  I clench my jaw and place my bag on the counter. "I have some things to sell," I say, pulling out the first item, a slightly tattered flowered tunic.

  He picks it up with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length as though it might contaminate him. "Common and threadbare," he mutters, tossing it aside without a second glance. "Barely worth the effort to sell."

  "But you will sell it, won't you?" I press, trying to gauge his intentions.

  "Perhaps," he says, his tone deliberately vague, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "If you provide aught else of value, I may consider purchasing the lot for a few coins."

  "Hmph." Next comes the bone comb. His lip curls as he turns it over in his hands. "Decent craftsmanship," he admits grudgingly, "but nothing special."

  The ram’s horn earns a raised eyebrow, but little more. He taps it against the counter, the sound hollow and unimpressive. "A drinking horn," he says dismissively. "Functional, but crude."

  Finally, I place the iron pendant on the counter. His movements slow, his expression shifting from derision to intrigue. He picks it up carefully, holding it to the light as his fingers trace the runes etched into the metal. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he says nothing.

  "And where," he begins, his tone noticeably softer, "did you find this?"

  "A crypt," I reply, wary of his sudden interest.

  He nods slowly, still studying the pendant. "This... this might be worth something after all," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. His earlier smugness has vanished, replaced by a calculating intensity that makes me wonder just how much value he sees in the strange artifact.

  The shopkeeper taps the pendant on the counter and then turns to me, his eyes lit with thinly veiled greed. "Hmm... five silvers for your little haul should be sufficient."

  The offer stuns me. Never in my life have I sold something worth so much. A single silver coin is worth twelve coppers, and a single copper can buy you enough bread to last days. I'd be set for months!

  The five silver coins he slides forward glint in the firelight, each one bearing the intricate engraving of a dragon, the emblem of Drakenstone. Their beauty is undeniable... real silver. I’ve never even held a silver coin before, and now they sit there, tantalizingly close. But the glint in his eye betrays him; he sees more value here than he lets on.

  The question is, how much?

  I straighten my posture, feigning indifference. "Five silvers? For an artifact like this? I don't think so," I say, pushing the coins back toward him.

  His lips curl into a sneer before widening into another smug smile. "A merchant, are we? If you think you can find a better offer, be my guest." He gestures to the door and the weight of uncertainty presses down on me. Honestly, I have no idea how much the pendant is worth—but the way he eyed it told me enough. He’s undervaluing it, I can feel it in my gut.

  I shake my head and make a move to scoop up the pendant, along with the other three items. "Fine. I'll try my luck elsewhere." He eyes me as I take them, crossing his arms, a single finger tapping his elbow.

  "Wait!" he barks. "Fine. Ten silvers." My jaw almost hits the floor. Ten? He doubled his price instantly. What the hell is that rusty iron necklace? I almost accept immediately, but hesitation clouds my judgment. Hesitation... and greed.

  I meet his gaze, holding the pendant just out of reach. "One gold," I counter firmly. A single gold coin, worth twenty silvers, is an audacious ask, but I know he wouldn't have doubled his last offer unless he truly wanted this thing. Doubling it again... feels reasonable, at least to my mind.

  "Gold? You little peasant...." His voice rises in a venomous hiss as his sneer twists even further.

  "It's what it's worth. At the least. You can't fool me." It's a bluff, but he hasn’t thrown me out yet. Part of me wonders if I should have asked for more, but... too late now.

  His eyes narrow, his jaw working as though he’s chewing on his own pride. After a tense silence, he relents, slamming a single gold coin onto the counter. "Take it and go," he snaps, his voice thick with irritation.

  I almost can't believe it... it worked. That piece of junk, he bought it from me with a gold coin!

  "Thanks for the business." I snatch up the coin, leaving the rest of the loot behind on his counter. I turn to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "Maybe I'll have something else to sell another time."

  He doesn’t answer immediately, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. But then, his lips curl into a smirk. "I look forward to it, peasant. If you find anything else like this..." His fingers linger over the pendant, almost reverently.

  "Be sure to bring it by. I’d be more than happy to buy it off you..." He pauses expectantly, waiting for me to give my name.

  "You can call me Seven." His smile widens. "I see.... Lucien Draegmoor, proprietor of Draegmoor's Hall. A pleasure."

  I give him a nod and he returns one in kind, as I exit his store back into the cold environs outside.

  Results

  +1 Gold Coin

  -1 Sharp Amulet

  -1 Loot Scraps

  Stats