The Shopkeeper's Tale

The bitter wind bit at Cliff’s cheeks as he stepped outside, the icy air filling his lungs, sending a shiver through his body. He pulled his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders and glanced back at the modest façade of his shop—its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze, the letters spelling out "Cliffstone Store". It was customary for one's store to be named after the owner. But being as his main objective was to live an obscure, simple life, he wanted to hide his renowned merchant family name. He remembered suddenly the many signs of "Ermes' Emporium" etched in faded gold probably still hanging in more active towns and cities. Other shops may close down. But not Ermes' Emporium stores. The sign he had now looked forlorn against the stark white backdrop of the snow-covered mountains and the bustling, vibrant marketplace beyond.

He turned his back on the shop, heading toward the main thoroughfare that cut through the heart of Reuben’s Rise. The cobblestone streets were alive with activity, a stark contrast to the lonely stillness he’d left behind. People bustled back and forth: merchants shouting their wares, adventurers laden with gear and weapons preparing for their next journey, and townsfolk arguing fiercely over the prices of bread and salted meat. Since there was no offical store here licensed by the university and kingdom, several tents and pop-up shops scattered in the square. Cliff’s footsteps were drowned out by the chaotic symphony of voices and clinking coins, the hum of life echoing off the stone buildings that lined the street.

It was overwhelming, yet strangely invigorating. Cliff’s gaze swept over the rows of stalls, each one crowded with goods that seemed to sparkle and shimmer even in the pale, wintry light. Potions of every hue imaginable—deep emerald greens, fiery reds, and icy blues—lined shelves and countertops, their contents glowing faintly within delicate glass bottles. Blades hung on display racks, their metal surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with magic. Amulets and charms dangled from strings, promising everything from good fortune to protection against curses.

If he were a serious shop owner, the sight of it all would have felt like a punch to the gut. These were the very items he had painstakingly stocked in his own shop, the wares he had hoped would draw people in and set his store apart. Yet here, they were just another part of the noisy, colorful tapestry of the market, lost among the dozens of other vendors shouting over one another, each trying to outdo the next.

He could not help himself. He began to think that if he was serious in running the shop that started here, he would have sold most of the common wares to hire a party in the nearby adventurer’s guild to collect some rare materials. He would then send those to some blacksmith or enchanter to make a rarer weapon or armor. He’d make solid partnerships with these blacksmiths, too, giving then their due portion from the sales. He smiled, then Cliff shot down that vision. Because he remembered how merchants like him screwed over hardowking, honest people with real skills and talent. Cliff walked on.

He paused in front of a particularly busy stall where a burly man with a booming voice was hawking a set of gleaming daggers. Each blade caught the light and reflected it in a dazzling display, the runes along their edges glowing a fierce, fiery red. The man’s voice cut through the air like a whip, drawing eyes and ears to him effortlessly.

“Fire-forged daggers! Guaranteed to pierce through even the toughest of hides! You there!” The man pointed to a wide-eyed adventurer who had been passing by. “Yes, you! Heading into the deep forests, are you? You’ll want one of these beauties at your side. A werebear’s hide won’t stand a chance!”

The adventurer hesitated, glancing at the daggers with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The merchant leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to make the words feel like a secret meant only for the adventurer’s ears. “And I’ll tell you what… just for you, a discount. Five gold pieces, and I’ll even throw in a whetstone. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

Cliff watched, appreciated the swindling, and tried his best not to roll his eyes. His merchant's eyes saw the real value of those fake fire-forged daggers. Some weapons were enchanted to hide their worth from Cliff’s class, but this he saw plainly: they would cut a werebear, maybe five times, before it breaks. Within moments, coins changed hands, and the adventurer walked away with two daggers and a whetstone tucked into his pack.

A sudden shout rang out over the din of the market. Cliff’s head snapped up, and he spotted a group of guards pushing their way through the crowd, their armor clinking softly with each movement. People stepped aside, muttering and casting wary glances as the guards approached a small, ragged-looking stall near the edge of the market square.

A man stood behind the stall, his clothes threadbare and patched, his face gaunt and hollow. His hands were trembling as he clutched at a small tray of goods. They were simple potions, Cliff noted, nothing like the more elaborate concoctions displayed elsewhere. The man’s eyes darted nervously around as the guards closed in, his entire body tense and hunched as if he were preparing to flee.

“You again?” one of the guards growled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Didn’t we tell you last time? No selling without a merchant’s license.”

“Please,” the man whispered, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd. “I… I just need to make enough to—”

“You’re breaking the law,” the guard interrupted coldly. He stepped forward and grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him away from the stall with a rough jerk. The man stumbled, his tray tipping over and spilling its contents onto the cobblestones. Glass bottles shattered, their contents pooling in iridescent puddles that quickly froze in the frigid air. “You know what that means.”

The man’s eyes widened, a look of sheer desperation crossing his face. “No, please! I’ll leave! I won’t come back, I swear! Just… just let me—”

“Enough,” the guard snapped, shoving him toward another soldier who stood waiting with a heavy, iron-barred cage. The man struggled, but it was no use—the guards forced him inside and slammed the door shut, locking it with a resounding clang. The crowd watched in tense silence, the only sound the faint, pitiful sobs of the man as he huddled in the corner of the cage, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Cliff’s heart twisted painfully as he looked at the scattered remnants of the man’s wares—tiny vials of what looked like simple healing potions, now shattered and useless. The desperate, defeated expression on the man’s face burned itself into Cliff’s mind, a mirror of everything that was wrong in their society. One needed to sell to survive in the world. And you needed proper documents for that. You were rocignized as a baker, or an innkeeper, or any other profession. Any common pilferer or gatherers of lost items near the Untamed Wild's edge would be thrown in prison. It was stupid, and they all followed it.

“That’s what happens when you don’t have the right paperwork,” one of the guards announced, his voice flat and emotionless. He turned his gaze to the crowd, his eyes sweeping over the onlookers with a warning glare. “Let this be a reminder. No license, no selling. Obey the laws, or you’ll end up like him.”

With that, the guards turned and marched off, the cage rattling as they dragged it behind them. The crowd slowly dispersed, people muttering and shaking their heads as they returned to their business. The man’s stall lay abandoned, his few remaining wares crushed underfoot and trampled into the dirty snow.

Cliff stood rooted to the spot, a hollow ache settling deep in his chest. He wanted to move, to do something, but what? He didn’t know the man’s story, didn’t know why he’d risked selling without a license. Maybe he was desperate, maybe he had a family to feed, or maybe he was just trying to survive in a world that didn’t seem to care whether people like him sank or swam.

Forcing himself to move, he turned away from the wreckage of the stall and continued down the street, his mind churning with thoughts that felt too big and too tangled to make sense of. The image of the man’s terrified face stayed with him, haunting his every step. How many others were there like him? How many people struggled just to keep their heads above water, crushed under the weight of rules and regulations that seemed more intent on breaking them than helping them?

He glanced around at the stalls, at the merchants with their licenses proudly displayed and their wares gleaming in the sunlight. It was all so… orderly. So structured. So fake.

Cliff’s footsteps slowed as he reached the edge of the market, the noise and chaos fading behind him. He stopped and looked back, his gaze sweeping over the bustling stalls, the shouting merchants, the jostling crowds.

With a deep breath, he turned and began making his way back to his shop, the cold air biting at his face and hands. The wind whipped around him, carrying the distant sounds of the market on its icy breath. Cliff set his shoulders, his steps slow.