I did not walk straight back to my stall.
Instead, I paused halfway down the avenue, beneath a stone arch carved with the sigil of the Porters' Guild. My breath steamed in the winter air as I fumbled open the purse.
Twenty silver drakes gleamed in the morning light.
I let them rest in my palm, feeling their weight press into the lines of my skin.
It was more money than I'd ever touched, more than some men earned in a season.
And all it cost you, I thought, was trust you can't afford.
But another voice—quieter, hungrier—whispered that I had done something no one expected. No guild sponsor, no family crest, no legacy behind me. Only will.
I closed my fist around the coins.
When I looked up again, the street seemed different. Less like a gauntlet. More like a map.
A place to be conquered.
---
I spent the next hour moving among the vendors in the eastern quarter.
I bought a bolt of dark wool—clean, unblemished, marked with the seal of a reputable weaver. A crate of glass phials, their stoppers carved from red oak. Three small casks of lamp oil, refined clear and pure.
And finally, when my purse was nearly half-empty, I purchased a ledger finer than any I had owned.
The cover was bound in dark calfskin, the pages thick and smooth. A crowned wheel was stamped in silver on the spine, more intricate than the crude symbol on my first book.
When I ran my thumb along the embossing, it felt like a promise.
This is the beginning, I thought. Not the end.
---
By midmorning, the stall was open again.
I had scrubbed the counters clean and hung a strip of the new wool to drape the front. It looked more respectable—more like something a real tradesman might claim.
Customers came slowly at first. A woman in a worn blue shawl examined the phials and bought two. A mason's apprentice haggled over a length of twine and finally paid in copper.
I noted every transaction in my new ledger, careful to record the weight of each coin.
When I looked up, I caught more than one passerby studying the changes to my stall.
Some with curiosity.
Some with envy.
And some with the cold appraisal of men who wondered whether my sudden fortune might be theirs for the taking.
---
By midday, my earnings filled a small pouch—ten coppers, six tin tokens, and a single silver.
I tucked it away beneath the counter and stretched my aching back.
I had not noticed how tired I was. How much effort it took to stand all morning, smiling when I wanted only to sink to the stones and sleep.
But as I watched the street, I felt a thread of quiet pride.
I was still here.
Still moving.
---
I was rearranging the phials when a voice spoke behind me.
"You've improved your stock."
I turned.
A man stood there, no older than thirty. He wore a plain brown cloak pinned with a brass clasp—unremarkable, save for the way he carried himself.
Too still. Too focused.
"Can I help you?" I asked carefully.
"Perhaps," he said. "You're Ren Arcanon."
I hesitated. "I am."
"I hear you've begun trading refined flux."
My mouth went dry.
"Who told you that?"
He smiled faintly. "People talk."
I forced myself to match his gaze.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course," he said. "But understand this—when you take work from the guild's channels, you take their notice as well."
"I have a license."
"Temporary," he corrected softly. "And easily revoked."
I swallowed.
"I haven't broken any laws."
"Not yet."
He stepped closer, until I could see the faint scar along his jaw.
"I don't care what arrangements you have with Ashel," he murmured. "But I would advise you to remember your place."
"Which is where?" I asked, my voice tight.
"At the edge of the ledger," he said. "Not at its center."
For an instant, I felt something flare behind my ribs—hot and reckless.
"Then perhaps you should step aside," I said. "I've work to do."
His smile widened, though it never reached his eyes.
"So be it," he said. "But remember—I warned you."
He turned and vanished into the crowd, leaving the faint scent of cloves in his wake.
---
I exhaled slowly, willing my heart to settle.
You're a fool, I told myself. You should have bowed. Apologized. Anything to keep your license safe.
But even as the thought came, I knew I wouldn't have done it differently.
I was tired of bowing.
---
By evening, I had sold nearly half my stock.
I locked the crates, counted the day's takings twice, and slipped them into the hidden pouch at my belt.
I was folding the cloth when Ashel appeared.
"You did well," he said without preamble.
"Someone came," I said. "He knew about the flux."
"A guild agent?"
I nodded.
Ashel's expression didn't change, but his eyes grew thoughtful.
"Then you've made your mark faster than I expected."
"He threatened me."
"Of course he did."
"What happens now?"
"Now," Ashel said quietly, "you learn the first lesson of trade."
"Which is?"
"Power is never given," he said. "It is only taken."
He gestured to the locked crates.
"Can you replace this stock?"
"If I must."
"Good," he said. "Because you will. The guild will not forgive you for stepping into their territory."
I swallowed.
"Then why did you have me do it?"
"Because you needed to see how quickly comfort becomes a prison."
He stepped closer.
"You can sell trinkets to peasants and live a quiet life. No one will trouble you. But if you mean to rise, you must be prepared to stand alone."
"And you?" I asked. "Will you stand with me?"
His gaze did not waver.
"When it suits my interests," he said simply.
I thought of the man's cold smile. Of the way he had looked at me, as if measuring how easily I might be broken.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will have peace," Ashel said softly. "But you will never have more."
---
The lamps were being lit as I walked home.
Each pool of light seemed to catch on the edge of the ledger at my belt, as though the crowned wheel were marking me for all to see.
You chose this, I reminded myself. You knew the price.
And yet, when I closed my door and set the purse on the small table, I felt no regret.
Only resolve.
If they meant to push me back into the mud, I thought, they would have to break me first.