Chapter 021: A True Merchant
[The void does not frighten me. It's the stillness behind me, the fear of never knowing what could have been, that drives me forward.]
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{MIDDAS, SOLYRA 25, 999 – 20:38}
{ROSE FANNETT}
Rose arrived at Gilford General Store just as the sky had settled into its deep indigo—the last pink threads of sunset fading beyond Orario's rooftops. She wore red, a dress formal enough for the gods' banquet but chosen for its simplicity: no excessive lace, no jewels, just clean lines and a low sash, as much armor as invitation. Her hair was pinned up, every strand in place, her badge of office tucked discreetly inside her shawl.
She didn't knock. She waited. To knock would have implied she expected a merchant to keep to proper hours, and nothing about Gilford General Store had ever given her reason to expect the proper.
The lane was unusually lively for this hour. The steady tap of hammers and low murmur of male voices spilled from the shop's open door, punctuated by laughter and the sound of something solid being dragged across floorboards. Workers—four or five of them, maybe more—moved back and forth inside, pausing every so often to help themselves to slices from a pair of enormous round pies. Each box, garish in its red and white design, was marked with blocky script: FOOD COURT FRESH PIZZA.
Rose stared for a moment, not quite sure what to make of it. She'd seen all manner of merchant fare in her time—buns and broth, fruit and wine carried by busyhands through every alley—but never had she seen workers on a repair crew eating their meal from boxes, seated atop crates and new shelving as if this were a celebration and not a late-night job. The scent drifted out: cheese, sharp and salty, spiced meat and crisped dough. Her stomach growled quietly, a betrayal she tamped down with long practice.
Through the open shop, she could see that the walls were already half-repainted. Shelves gleamed with new stain, the old battered counter nowhere in sight. Lanterns hung on temporary hooks, flooding the space with a steady, golden light.
No sign of Lucian yet. She waited by the door, listening to the easy camaraderie between the workers—men at ease with one another and with the man who employed them. The kind of rapport that couldn't be bought with coin alone.
Rose folded her arms, adjusting the lay of her dress, and told herself she was only here on Guild business. Only waiting because she had a duty to fulfill, a banquet to attend, and a merchant to keep in line. If her pulse thrummed a little faster, if her tail curled just so behind her—well, that was nobody's business but her own.
She glanced up as one of the crew noticed her, nudged a companion, and said something too quiet to catch. The others followed his gaze, eyes widening at the sight of a woman in red on a merchant lane after dark. She met their looks with practiced neutrality, letting them puzzle over her presence. Let them wonder.
After all, she was here for business. Nothing more.
The laughter faded as Lucian stepped out, pulling the shop door shut behind him. Rose caught herself blinking in genuine surprise.
He wore black from head to toe, but none of it was Orario black—no fine wool or festival-cut linen. His coat had a short, boxy cut and seams so precise she could hardly see them at all, the cuffs folded with a strange symmetry. His hat—deep black, stiff-brimmed, marked with an angular sigil ("Carhartt," she read, but found no meaning in it)—sat squarely above his brow. The sweater beneath was plain but bore the name "DeWalt" in bold yellow letters. His trousers and boots matched the coat in their odd, sturdy styling, and there wasn't a single visible clasp, button, or stitch she could recognize.
Rose's tail gave the smallest twitch. "Lucian. What, exactly, are you wearing?"
He smiled—not sheepish, but pleased, as if she'd asked the right question. "Workwear. From back home. I thought tonight was as good a time as any to debut a new product line."
She exhaled—half a sigh, half resignation. "You're really a merchant at heart, aren't you? Only you would turn a gods' banquet into a demonstration."
He grinned wider, unashamed. "If you're going to walk into a room full of gods, you might as well dress for the job you want."
She shook her head, but the faintest glimmer of amusement softened her features. He offered his arm, the gesture formal but laced with a certain self-awareness—as if daring her to call the whole thing off.
Rose hesitated, glancing at the crew inside—half expecting one of them to break the moment with a joke or a whistle. None did. She placed her hand on his arm, her grip light but sure.
"Lead on, then," she said, letting her tone stay dry. "If the gods don't know you yet, they certainly will by morning."
Lucian's answering smile was warm, steady, and just a bit mischievous. "That's the plan."
They fell into step together, the city lane echoing with the last of the workers' laughter. The evening air was crisp, lanterns winking to life one by one as they made their way toward the Guild's grand facade.
After a few silent strides, Rose cast a glance sideways, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What were they eating, exactly? It smelled… unfamiliar. Not bread, not stew."
Lucian's lips curled in the beginnings of a grin. "Pizza. From my food court. I also sell hot food, if you can believe it. The kind you eat with your hands, straight from the box. Cheesy, greasy, and guaranteed to ruin a fine dress if you're not careful."
She considered this. "You're telling me you sell meals as well as bottles and spices? You run a kitchen now?"
"Not quite. But if you can name it, I can probably order it. Hot, fresh, or frozen—just another perk of the warehouse." He tipped his odd cap, as if sharing a trade secret. "But I draw the line at weapons."
Rose arched a brow, mildly impressed and still a bit suspicious. "So, if I came to you for a battleaxe, you'd turn me away?"
He chuckled. "I'd offer you a pair of work gloves and a can of soup instead. The gods have enough warriors. I'll stick to feeding people, not arming them."
They turned onto the main avenue, the noise of festival preparations rising around them—music, bells, distant shouts. Rose relaxed by degrees, falling into the rhythm of the walk, her red skirts brushing the dust just so, her hand steady on Lucian's unfamiliar sleeve.
"Perhaps it's for the best," she murmured. "If you ever started selling weapons, I imagine the city would never sleep again."
Lucian laughed, his voice low and genuine. "That's the last thing I want. Let the other merchants make trouble. I'll settle for a slice of the pie—figuratively and literally."
By the time they reached the Guild's front steps, the street was alive with color and motion—lanterns bobbing overhead, banners stretched between colonnades, the air thick with anticipation and that peculiar mix of anxiety and bravado that seemed to infect all of Orario on festival nights. Lucian guided her up the shallow stairs, the click of her heels drowned by the noise spilling from the open plaza behind them.
A carriage—black-lacquered, the Guild's crest stamped discreetly on the door—waited at the curb. Rose took its presence as both courtesy and command: the Guild was not hosting the banquet, but it would make certain its representatives arrived precisely on time and with the right measure of dignity.
She allowed Lucian to open the carriage door, his strange black cap dipping in a gesture that was more craftsman than courtier. She gathered her skirts, stepped up, and settled into the plush interior. The seat creaked beneath the unfamiliar weight of her nerves. Lucian climbed in after, careful not to brush the hem of her dress with his peculiar boots.
The door closed, muting the city to a distant hum. For a moment, the only sound was the soft jangle of harness and the clop of hooves as the driver set them in motion.
Rose kept her eyes on the window, watching the city roll past—the stone arcades, the shadows spilling long and blue beneath balconies. The air inside the carriage was scented faintly with cedar and something sharper, a memory of old polish and newer anxiety.
Lucian sat across from her, posture relaxed but hands folded loosely in his lap, fingers still dusted with the day's work. His clothes looked even stranger in the velvet dimness: sturdy, tailored, but built for a world with different rules.
She found herself breaking the silence first, voice low. "You seem remarkably calm."
He smiled, meeting her gaze in the glass. "You learn not to show nerves in front of customers. Or gods, I suppose."
She wondered if that was wisdom or just bravado, but kept the thought to herself. The carriage turned onto a broader avenue, picking up speed as they joined the string of other vehicles—each bearing their share of dignitaries, merchants, and minor deities toward Ganesha's manor at the city's heart.
Rose straightened her sash, adjusting to the gentle sway of the carriage. The night outside was shot with torchlight and laughter, but inside, the quiet felt private, almost fragile. She caught Lucian watching her reflection, as if memorizing how she wore the color red.
For once, she let the silence grow, content to watch the city pass by and ready herself for the performance to come.
Tonight, everything would be seen—by gods, by mortals, by those who understood far too much and those who pretended to understand nothing at all. And she was escorting Orario's most talked-about merchant into the very center of it.
The city's bustle dimmed as their carriage left the Guild plaza, wheels slipping into a steady rhythm against the flagstones. Rose kept her gaze angled out the window, but her attention tracked every shift of Lucian's posture, every glance that passed between them and out into the flickering torchlit avenues. The air in the cabin was close, the tension between them somehow quieter and sharper than any festival noise.
Lucian broke the silence first, voice mild but colored with something dry. "Showing up in a Guild carriage is… bold, don't you think? Especially with a Guild employee as a date." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Should I be worried Royman's trying to stake his claim on me?"
For a heartbeat, she saw a different edge in him—a flash in his eyes that wasn't humor at all, but something dangerous, something not at home among paperwork or friendly banter. It caught her off guard, and for just a moment, she hesitated. The city outside flickered past in shadows, gold and blue, and she realized she'd never seen him look like that before.
She considered her words, then met his gaze directly. "It wasn't Royman. There was no assignment tonight. I… asked for the seat myself. I wanted to get to know you a bit more." Her voice, usually unshakeable, came out softer than she intended, colored by honesty and the faintest hint of regret.
He looked at her, surprise flickering there before he seemed to let out a breath. For the first time since she'd met him, he looked uncertain—not about her, but about himself, or perhaps the place he now held in this city's tangled web.
He looked away, watching lanternlight scroll across the glass. "You could've just asked," he sighed, the words quiet and almost too soft for her sharp ears. "Now I look like an idiot, wearing new product instead of a proper suit. On a date, no less."
Rose's mouth went dry. She wanted to say it wasn't a date. That it was business, Guild business, an engagement for the sake of appearances or reputation. But the words tangled on her tongue and refused to come out. What was it, then, if not a date? She watched his reflection in the window, the odd lines of his hat and coat thrown into silhouette by the carriage lamps.
"It's…" she started, but the explanation died, unsatisfactory. She settled for honesty instead, voice low. "I didn't think you'd come if I just asked."
He almost smiled. "I might've, if you'd offered pizza."
That got a small huff of laughter from her, more relief than amusement. The city's noise returned for a moment as they passed through a market square, a band striking up somewhere near the fountains, and for a few heartbeats the world outside felt distant, less important than the quiet between them.
She watched him, watched the way he flexed his hands against his knees, the thoughtful angle of his jaw. He wore work clothes to a banquet, but he carried himself as if he belonged anywhere he decided to go. She realized, in that moment, that she wanted to see how he handled a room full of gods—not for the Guild, not for Royman, but for herself.
The carriage rattled to a halt beneath the towering arch of Ganesha's manor, its marble pillars lit gold and rose in the banquet lamps. Voices and laughter spilled down the steps, the din of the festival swelling as the city's highest and most powerful assembled for the night's spectacle.
Lucian was the first to move, slipping out into the swirl of torchlight and crisp night air. Rose waited a heartbeat—enough to gather her composure, to make sure her dress fell just so—then watched as he turned back, one hand extended in silent invitation.
She hesitated, if only for a fraction of a second, letting the world pause around them. His hand was steady in the lantern glow, but as her fingers closed over his she felt the chill of his skin—a little cold, a touch clammy. So, then, he was not nearly as unflappable as he'd appeared in the carriage.
A wave of quiet satisfaction stole over her. For all his talk and easy smiles, Lucian was still just a man out of place among gods and guilds, doing his best to act the part. She squeezed his hand once, gently, before stepping down. Her shoes touched the flagstones with a muted click; she straightened, letting go of his hand only after she was balanced.
They stood for a moment together at the foot of the grand steps, side by side as the crowd flowed around them. He didn't pull away, nor did she.
"Ready?" she asked quietly, her voice almost lost in the sound of celebration.
Lucian let out a small, unsteady breath. "After all this? I'd better be."
She almost smiled, almost let herself lean in—but the Guild's eyes were everywhere, and this was not a night for weakness.
Together, they started up the steps, red dress and black workwear cutting a strange, striking line toward the blazing lights and hungry eyes of Orario's divine.