The sound of hammering echoed in the morning air. Outside the hut, Aria crouched over a pile of old wooden planks and bent nails, determinedly putting together something that looked like a stall. A worn tarp fluttered above her, half-secured to a nearby tree. Sweat dripped from her brow, but her hands kept moving.
Inside, Kurt Allester stood before a makeshift wooden table. Spread across it were blobs of hardened soap, dried herbs, broken pots, and rough sketches labeled in his messy, half-scientific shorthand.
He muttered to himself. "Saponification complete. But this lavender batch isn't curing properly. Too much moisture. And that one—ugh, no, that smells like boiled cabbage." He grimaced and turned to rinse his hands in the basin that Aria had brought from a nearby spring.
Still, despite the mess, a rare smile curled at his lips. The formula was stabilizing. He had real customers. He even paused to label his latest experiment as "V3.3 – Floral Attempt (Disaster)."
"Hey, Kurt!" Aria's voice called out. "Come help me tie this down before the wind steals our roof!"
He peeked out from the hut, holding a wrapped bundle of soap bars. "Are you sure your... stall is stable?"
She glared. "Stable enough to sell your stinky miracle bricks. Now help."
They tied the tarp together and admired their rough creation: a slanted table, a small sign with hastily painted letters ("Aria's Clean Goods"), and a small stool to sit on. Simple. Temporary. But something about it felt official.
Aria wiped her hands and looked at him. "You know, I never asked. Where did you learn all this?"
Kurt froze. "Learn what?"
She shrugged. "How to make soap from strange fats. How to boil things into powder. How to talk like a priest reading a cursed book."
He forced a laugh. "I just picked up things over time."
"Where?"
"Far away," he said too quickly. "I traveled a lot before coming here."
She gave him a long look, narrowing her eyes. "You sound like a noble sometimes. Not the arrogant kind, but the... confusing kind."
He shrugged, reaching into his journal to avoid eye contact. "Must be the way I talk."
Aria didn't press further, but the tension lingered for a moment too long.
The next day brought an unexpected problem.
A middle-aged woman stormed up to the stall, holding a half-used soap bar in one hand and rubbing her arm with the other. "You! Girl! This soap made me itch like I rolled in poison ivy!"
Aria sprang to her feet. "I—I'm so sorry, ma'am. Which one did you use?"
"The blue one with the flowers! Smelled nice at first. Then I looked like I fought a beehive."
Kurt's eyes widened. "Floral Attempt 3.2…" he muttered under his breath, already flipping to a new page in his notes. "Note: local plants may contain allergens. Check future additions."
"We'll refund you," Aria said quickly, handing over another bar—one of the plain, tested ones. "Please accept this instead. It's the one most people use."
The woman huffed but accepted it, muttering as she walked away.
Kurt watched the exchange, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck. "We need a customer reaction log," he said.
"A what?"
"A book. With names. Reactions. What they used. Symptoms. Curing time. Feedback data. Control groups. Maybe even blind trials—"
"Whoa, whoa, I just gave her a bar of soap." Aria stared at him like he'd grown horns. "Are you trying to build a shrine or sell something?"
Kurt didn't answer. He was already scribbling ideas down. The failed batch would be renamed. The herbal additives needed dilution. Perhaps even filtering…
Aria sighed. "You're impossible."
That night, by candlelight, they sat under the tarp stall and talked.
Aria had brought bread and roasted tubers. They sat in silence for a while, chewing. The flame flickered on her tired face.
"I've been thinking," she said suddenly. "We should divide our work."
Kurt blinked. "I thought we already did?"
"I mean properly. You don't like talking to people. I do. You love your books and strange experiments. I don't. So I'll handle the stall. You handle the product."
Kurt chewed thoughtfully. "Logical. Efficient."
"And I want to name the soap."
"No."
She raised an eyebrow.
He sighed. "Fine. But not something ridiculous."
She grinned and held up a small drawing on rough parchment. A hand. A sparkle. And a word: "Clearhand."
Kurt stared at it. "It's offensively simple."
"Exactly. People will remember it. 'Get a Clearhand today!'"
He groaned. "Fine."
And so, Clearhand Soap was born.
A few days later, as the sun reached its peak, a man approached the stall. He wore crisp clothes, carried a fine leather pouch, and moved with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed.
Aria stood. "Welcome! Looking for something to freshen your hands?"
The man glanced around before speaking. "My lady heard about your soap. She requests a dozen bars. She... prefers the lavender scent, if available."
Aria's eyes widened. "Of course! Right away!"
Kurt, from inside the hut, overheard and immediately panicked. "The lavender batch isn't consistent! The ratios haven't stabilized!"
"Shut up and wrap them!"
They handed over a dozen wrapped bars, tied with twine. The servant gave them silver coins—more than they'd seen in a week.
"She may send someone to inquire more," the man added before leaving.
Kurt stood frozen, the silver in his hand feeling heavy.
Aria grinned. "We just sold twelve bars to a noble."
Kurt didn't smile. He stared at the stall, then at the hut, then at the hills beyond.
"Something's coming," he muttered.
Aria blinked. "What?"
"Nothing."
He turned away and disappeared back into the hut.