"That's nice. Just don't recommend me as free labor."
The days that followed were surprisingly peaceful. Charles stayed in the city, enjoying his newfound wealth, waiting for more farmers from the plains to seek him out.
Only three villages came.
His offer, apparently, had sounded too good to be true. Out on the plains, trust was rarer than rain. Worse, rival parties were making their own offers—gold stacked high, but with chains hidden underneath. These weren't business deals; they were buyouts. Guaranteed payments, no risk, but the farmers became little more than serfs.
Charles stared into a half-empty mug one morning. "They're not selling crops—they're selling themselves. What happens when the coin dries up? Or the 'partner' decides he owns everything?"
He let it go. Coin was still coming in. People were making their choices; he would make his own. He leaned into city life, letting it swallow him whole. Backroom politics and rivalries were dangerous—he'd already learned that after just four modest sales. Whispers followed him. Curious glances. Innocent questions that weren't. And at night, shadows lingered where they didn't belong. Watching. Waiting.
---
Two weeks drifted by in a haze of liquor, card games, and occasional visits to the brothel. Gerart remained his steadfast drinking partner. Anne—sharp, memorable Anne—had vanished. Maybe she'd moved on. Maybe she'd grown wise to the game. Either way, others were happy to fill her shoes, though none caught Charles' attention.
His days blurred. He wandered the shops, loitered in the library, drank, and slept. Sometimes he walked the streets aimlessly, observing merchants bargaining, guards patrolling, and the occasional shady figure slipping between alleyways. There was a rhythm to the city he could almost predict—a pulse he could exploit if he chose.
Eventually, he signed up at the Mercenary Guild. That didn't go as planned.
He'd forgotten to slip back into the meek persona from his first visit. Instead, he walked in confident, head high, gaze steady. The clerk gave him a long, unimpressed stare. She recognized him. Her silence said more than words ever could. Charles shrugged, planning to take a light contract soon—just for appearances.
But first, he needed to see Elder Mosswood, the man from the first village. They had strategy to discuss: next year's harvest, possible expansion. Mosswood wasn't due in the city for a few more days, and the waiting gnawed at him. Coin was bleeding. Time was wasting. His enemies—wherever they were—were gaining ground.
At least today, he had something useful to do. He was visiting the Mage Guild.
---
Dressed in his finest from Thorns and Thread—a boutique so eerie he half-suspected vampires ran it—Charles strode through the cobbled streets. Gerart had warned him: the mages were the worst snobs.
The Guild loomed ahead: a pristine white monolith, its spires faintly shimmering, as if mocking outsiders. Less a place of learning, more a temple built to sneer. He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward.
The double doors swung open silently. Inside, the corridor stretched ahead like a frozen river, sterile white walls punctuated only by floating crystal lanterns and softly pulsing sigils. At the far end, a young woman in a blue robe buried herself in a tome. She didn't look up.
"I know about you," she said, not looking up. "Wait until I finish this chapter. It's gripping."
Fifteen long minutes later, she finally faced him. "What do you want? You smell like liquor and perfume. Not exactly our usual clientele."
Charles counted out five gold coins, one by one, letting each land with a satisfying slap. "I want to test for mage talent. Maybe join."
Her eyebrow arched. "Richer than you look. Sign here. Mage Alaric has an opening next week. Take this token. Don't waste our time."
Charles pocketed the medallion and left. "All arrogant pricks," he muttered. Twenty minutes and five gold coins, and the act of waiting had cost him more patience than he cared to admit.
As he walked back into the bustling streets, he noticed a few passersby sneering at his freshly polished boots or the glint of coin in his pouch. He smirked. Status, even small, made people shift. It was amusing to watch.
---
The Free City Bank was a short walk from the Guild Quarter. Not flashy—just solid stone, polished wood, and a brass plaque.
"Guess the bankers know better than to waste coin on façades," Charles muttered. He deposited ten gold, keeping six for himself. Interest was modest—two percent—but better than hiding it under floorboards.
A new joint venture with the Mage Guild caught his eye: a heavy gold-and-steel Bank Coin, storing your balance for direct payments across reputable stores. Convenient, if costly. Still, real money saved felt good. It changed how people treated him.
As he left, a hooded figure lingered at the corner, unmoving. Just a coincidence, he told himself. Yet his gut tensed. Another shadow slipping into the city's rhythm, watching, waiting. He shook it off—but his instincts whispered that the quiet city life wouldn't last forever.
---
Two days before his appointment with Mage Alaric, Elder Mosswood arrived at the inn. The old man seemed reborn: straighter back, lighter steps, even a less gray beard.
"You have no idea how grateful we are," Mosswood said, clasping Charles' arm warmly. "We met with other villages we trust. They've made a decision."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"They're not just facing bad harvests," the elder said. "Crop failures, monster attacks, sabotage—it's deliberate. Someone's trying to break us, wear us down, drive us off the land."
Charles frowned. "So what now?"
"We're uniting," Mosswood said, pride flaring. "Eight villages. One banner. A human farmers' coalition. No more picking us off one by one."
Charles leaned back. Free money. Not bad. But Mosswood's tone shifted. "We want to work through you next year—for everything. Some still hesitate. They're testing you."
Charles' smile faded. "Go on."
"The test is simple," Mosswood said, locking eyes with him. "Put together a crew of hunters. Clear the beasts attacking our fields. Drive off whatever stirs the monsters. Succeed, and you earn five percent more commission—and full control of our business."
Charles' eyes narrowed. No risk. All gain. "Alright," he said slowly. "I'll talk to Gerart. We'll handle it." This time, he meant we.
As Mosswood left, Charles looked out over the city rooftops from his inn window. The streets below teemed with life—merchants, beggars, guards, and hidden threats he didn't yet see. He smiled faintly. This city had its pulse. And soon, he intended to feel it in his hands.