Chapter 35 - Chapter 35 - Laying the Foundation

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With the formalities complete, the clerk stood up for the first time since their arrival. He moved stiffly, like someone who wasn't used to leaving his desk often, and crossed the room to retrieve a small iron key from a wooden box near the wall.

He turned back to them, the key resting in his palm, and gave a short nod. "Follow me."

James and Ofelia did as instructed, stepping out into the daylight once more. The clerk walked at a steady pace, cutting across the town square. They passed by the central fountain, its clear water bubbling quietly over worn stone, the sound soft and steady beneath the murmur of the morning crowd.

Ofelia's eyes lingered on the water for a moment, but she said nothing.

James kept his gaze forward, heart beating a little faster with each step.

The clerk led them across the square, diagonally from his office. The house stood just beyond the plaza, directly facing the fountain. A few trees framed the edge of the path, their leaves rustling in the breeze.

James recognized it instantly. But Ofelia's steps slowed as they approached, her eyes widening ever so slightly beneath the shade of her hood. It was the first time she saw it—and it didn't resemble anything from her past.

The stone walls stood firm and solid, with ivy weaving lazily along the sides. The windows were framed with smooth, polished wooden shutters, and beneath each one sat narrow planters where flowers bloomed in soft shades of violet and yellow. A small garden surrounded the house, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges that curved gently around the front path. The gravel underfoot crunched softly with each step.

To her, it looked less like a structure… and more like something out of a story.

"This is the property," the clerk announced with a touch of pride.

He handed the key to James with a quiet nod. James turned it in the lock, and with a soft click, the door opened.

Inside, the air was dry and faintly earthy, carrying a subtle scent of dust and old wood.

The clerk stepped aside, letting them enter.

The interior was unfurnished as before, the wooden floors bare but clean. The walls were pale and smooth, reflecting the daylight pouring through the windows. It was quiet inside—no hum, no ticking, no signs of electricity. Just silence and the soft creak of floorboards beneath their steps.

Despite that, the space had a rustic charm that couldn't be denied.

James took a slow breath and walked in, each step echoing faintly. He passed through the main room, noting the open layout and high ceiling beams, then made his way to the kitchen.

As before, the countertop was wide, sanded smooth. A wood-burning oven stood to one side, its iron door slightly ajar. In the corner, a recessed stone basin with a drain led outdoors—clearly designed for washing vegetables and dishes. On the far wall, a small, sealable opening appeared to serve as a waste disposal chute. It was a simple solution, but a clever one.

James ran his hand along the edge of the counter, nodding slightly.

Behind him, the clerk followed in silence, observing the new owner's inspection with practiced detachment. A few steps further back, Ofelia moved hesitantly through the doorway, her footsteps light but uncertain.

Her eyes scanned the space—the tall beams above, the clean floor, the way the sunlight pooled across the walls. Everything felt surreal.

This is where we're going to live? she thought, almost in disbelief.

Ofelia remained still for a moment, hands clasped in front of her, not daring to touch anything. The silence stretched around her like a blanket, and for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel threatening.

It felt... safe.

She knew James had spoken about buying a house. He'd even told her they would settle somewhere eventually. But never—never—had she imagined he would choose something this... luxurious. The stone walls, the polished wood, the soft garden outside—it was more than she ever thought someone like her would be allowed to call home.

And yet... here they were.

While Ofelia remained rooted in place, lost in her quiet awe, James turned toward the clerk.

"Is there any way to have the place furnished?" he asked, glancing around the bare walls and empty floor.

The clerk gave a knowing smile. "Most clients prefer to purchase furniture themselves—choose what suits their taste. But… if you'd rather not bother, I can arrange to have the essentials delivered and installed."

James nodded thoughtfully, then reached into his pouch. He pulled out six gold coins and dropped them one by one into the clerk's open hand. "Furnish it with five. The sixth is for you."

The clerk's eyes lit up as he felt the weight. "Understood," he said smoothly, pocketing the coins. "You'll find it well-appointed by tomorrow evening."

Then, as if finally recognizing the full extent of who he was dealing with, the man bowed low. His tone having shifted, the stiffness melting into something more respectful.

To him, James was no longer just a traveler with a pouch of gold. He was a big-shot merchant. One of those types—the kind who didn't blink at prices, who dropped coins like seeds in fertile ground.

James offered a faint smile, saying nothing and giving back the key to the house.

The clerk then wasted no time. With a final polite nod, he stepped out of the house, the heavy door closing gently behind him.

Already, his mind was racing.

Five gold for furnishing a home. If he played this right, made the place shine just enough without overreaching, it could turn into more than just a tidy profit. Word traveled quickly among the upper circles and merchant networks. If this James really was a rising player, having his favor—or even just his name on a well-furnished property—might open doors.

Do this right, he thought to himself smiling as he strode across the square, and more jobs and coins might land right at your feet.

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Inside, James was crying a little.

Those gold coins had been hard-earned—squeezed from careful trades, long walks, and no shortage of awkward negotiations. Dropping six of them in one go right after dropping 20 more felt like tearing off a piece of his soul.

But right now? He didn't have the time—or the energy—to furnish a house from scratch. Prioritizing speed and efficiency, this was the smarter move.

Besides… there was a bonus in there.

Paying the clerk directly meant the man would remember him. Probably talk about him. And in a city like Trudid, with its lack of true merchant, his reputation would traveled fast—especially among bureaucrats and officials. If word started spreading that James was someone worth taking seriously?

Well, that kind of recognition could end up worth more than the coins he'd just spent.

At least that was what he taught.

Once the clerk had walked off down the lane, James turned toward Ofelia with a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"Well?" he asked, spreading his arms as if to present the house all over again. "What do you think of our new home?"

Ofelia glanced around, then down, her cheeks already coloring as she avoided his gaze. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her cloak.

"I-It's very big… and beautiful," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Then, almost to herself, "Can we really live here?"

James, catching her quiet words, stepped closer with a gentle smile. His voice was calm, reassuring.

"Of course we will," he said softly. "This is our home now, Feli. No more moving around all the time."

James smiled more warmly and reached out before giving her hand a light squeeze.

"We belong here now. This place is ours."

They stood in silence for a moment longer, just taking it in—the faint echo of their footsteps in the empty hall, the soft creak of the wooden frame settling in the summer warmth. Then, with a shared glance, they turned and stepped outside, gently behind them. James didn't lock the door. He simply let it shut with a soft click.

The key remained with the clerk for now. There was nothing inside worth stealing yet—just walls, windows, and the promise of a new beginning.

James didn't lock the door. He simply let it shut with a soft click.

They walked side by side through the sunlit street, the noise of the city swelling around them like a tide—merchants calling out their wares, children darting between market stalls, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer in the distance. Ofelia stayed close, her hood lightly brushing his shoulder every now and then.

Soon, they arrived at a modest yet well-kept building tucked between two taller shops. Above the entrance, a wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze, carved with the image of a gavel and a coin purse—subtle, but unmistakable. The structure had a quiet authority to it, a kind of reserved prestige.

People came and went in a steady flow, their conversations hushed and deliberate. Some carried scrolls or small lockboxes, others whispered figures while scribbling into worn ledgers. Every movement felt purposeful, like part of a larger dance of commerce that rarely paused for outsiders.

James held the door open for Ofelia, and they stepped inside.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate—cooler, quieter, more deliberate. It wasn't silent, but every word seemed to carry weight. Conversations were purposeful, clipped and private, echoing off the polished wooden floors and high-beamed ceilings.

"Mr. James!" a familiar voice called out warmly.

Mason was already striding toward them. It seemed that since their last deal together, he had really opened up to him. He was still dressed in a tailored vest and a crisp shirt, looking both successful and entirely unbothered by the summer heat outside. His eyes sparkled with a mix of welcome and curiosity as he extended a hand.

"I heard you made a little trip to Edima," he said with a knowing grin, clasping James's hand firmly. "Tell me you didn't come back empty-handed. Don't break my heart like that."

He glanced briefly at Ofelia, before immediately turning his attention back to James as if she weren't really part of the conversation.

James smiled faintly and gave a small nod in return. Without a word, the trio began walking through the wide hallway, weaving between finely dressed merchants and sharply attentive assistants. Mason led them confidently, as if the building belonged to him.

They soon reached a familiar room tucked off to the side—Mason's usual office. The space was modest but well-appointed, with a solid oak desk, shelves lined with ledgers and glass display cases, and a pair of high-backed chairs that had seen their fair share of deals.

"Please, take a seat," Mason offered casually, already moving around to his side of the desk.

James didn't sit. Instead, he swung his backpack off his shoulder and set it on the table with a soft thump.

Without a word, he began unpacking.

One by one, a growing collection of items was laid out across the polished surface—rings, trinkets, small enchanted stones or mineral, a set of silver-inlaid bracers, and even a delicately carved steel box that seemed to hum faintly with residual mana. Each object caught the light in its own way, hinting at hidden value or subtle enchantment.

Only two items remained untouched: the Drowned dagger of the sea, carefully sheathed and still secured in James's backpack, and the delicate leaf-shaped pendant that hung around Ofelia's neck.

Mason leaned forward slowly, his fingers steepled under his chin, eyes wide with anticipation. He didn't try to hide it—he was already mentally calculating the commission these sales would bring.

"Well, well…" he murmured, voice thick with barely contained greed. "You've been busy."

Mason let out a slow breath, almost like a sigh of contentment, as if he'd just uncorked a fine bottle of wine.

"You've really outdone yourself this time," he said, glancing over the spread like a jeweler appraising a king's ransom. "This isn't just quantity—it's variety. That's what gets people whispering."

He looked up at James, a spark of sharp intent in his eyes.

"I won't put them all up at once," he continued. "That would be a waste."

He tapped one finger lightly against the edge of the desk as he spoke, already strategizing.

"We'll stagger them. One, maybe two a day. That way, each item gets its moment to shine. Word spreads, curiosity builds, and people start showing up just to see what the next one might be. They talk, they speculate... and they bid higher when their favorites finally show."

He smiled, pleased with himself.

"Trust me—by the time the third or fourth piece hits the floor, the auction house will be buzzing. And when that happens, the prices go up... and so does your cut."

Mason leaned back slightly, as if to let the idea settle in James's mind.

"Unless, of course, you're in a rush for coin. But I doubt that—you don't strike me as desperate."

James didn't say anything right away. He simply watched Mason speak, amused by the man's growing excitement and confidence in his own sales tactics.

But before he could offer a reply, Mason leaned back in his chair and arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, and congratulations," he said casually, as if it were just another small detail. "I heard you bought a house this morning."

James blinked, surprised. "Already? How?"

Mason chuckled. "Please. You think someone drops that much gold at the clerk's office and it doesn't ripple through the merchant circles? Come on, Mr. James. You're becoming someone to watch."

James raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

Mason, still grinning, tapped a finger on the desk again, this time more thoughtfully.

"So tell me," he said, voice shifting from amusement to genuine curiosity, "what's your plan?"

James tilted his head slightly.

"I mean," Mason went on, "you've clearly decided to settle down. You've got a home now. And with the kind of profit you're bringing in—and the quality of what you bring back—it's only a matter of time before others start paying closer attention."

He leaned forward again, eyes sharp.

"You ever think about opening a business? A shop, maybe? Something small at first. You've got the coin, and clearly the instinct. You could control the flow, take better margins, even build a reputation under your own name instead of just riding through the auction house."

Then, catching himself, he added with a chuckle, "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I like it when you drop off bags full of treasure. I'm just saying—if you want to keep that coin flowing, taking control of your own storefront might be the next step."

James crossed his arms and leaned a little on the edge of the desk, eyes drifting over the spread of items before him.

"A shop, huh…" he murmured. "I won't lie, it's tempting. But I wouldn't know where to start."

Mason's smile widened slightly, like a merchant smelling opportunity.

"Well, lucky for you," he said, lowering his voice just a notch, "this city thrives on people who don't know where to start. That's half the business model."

Then he threw a quick glance at Ofelia, still standing quietly at James's side, her expression unreadable under the shadow of her hood.

"I'm sure you saw the slavers' compound while you were in Edima," Mason added, his tone more casual than the words warranted.

James's expression darkened immediately. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his head slightly and looked at Ofelia.

She wasn't looking at Mason. Her gaze was low, fixed on the polished grain of the desk, her lips pressed into a thin line. The pendant around her neck caught a sliver of light, but she didn't move.

James studied her for a moment longer, then gave a small, deliberate nod.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

Mason caught the gesture and leaned back with a satisfied hum, folding his hands behind his head.

Mason gave a thoughtful hum, then leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk.

"If you're serious about this," he said in a lower, more pragmatic tone, "you should pay that compound a visit. Like I said—don't get the wrong idea. It's not just criminals and runaways behind those gates."

He glanced toward the window as if recalling something distant.

"Sometimes, it's former merchants who fell on the wrong side of debt. Traders, scribes, clerks… people who knew how to run a business before their luck turned. You find one with the right mindset, and they'll teach you more in a month than most guilds would in a year."

His eyes flicked back to James, sharp and assessing.

"And with the kind of house you just bought? You're going to need staff anyway. Someone to keep the place clean, stocked, protected. You're not running a roadside inn—you're laying down roots. That comes with responsibility."

James's jaw tensed slightly. He didn't answer at once.

His gaze dropped briefly to the table, then returned to Ofelia—still silent, still unmoving—and finally settled back on Mason.

The logic was there. The practicality made sense.

But he didn't have to like it.

James let the silence stretch for a moment, the weight of Mason's words sinking deeper than he cared to admit.

Finally, he gave a short nod and murmured, "Thanks, Mason."

Mason simply smiled and leaned back again, hands folded behind his head like a man satisfied with the seeds he'd just sown.

Without another word, James turned, slinging his pack over his shoulder once more, and made his way out of the office.

The polished floors of the auction house no longer gleamed with the same appeal. The murmured voices faded into a dull hum behind him as he stepped through the main hall, his thoughts churning too loudly to make sense of any of them.

Outside, the sunlight greeted him again, warm and indifferent.

Ofelia followed a few steps behind, quiet as ever. She didn't ask where they were going. She didn't have to.

James didn't look back, but he knew she was there.

And for now, that was enough.