A storm appeared suddenly near the city, and in the midst of the downpour, a scene of chaos caught the boy's eye. A great merchandise delivery from the south, its carts filled with heavy crates of silk, wool, and linen, was now thoroughly damaged by the weather. The goods were soaked, their luster and strength lost—a disastrous sight for any merchant.
The merchant in charge of the convoy, a veteran-looking middle-aged man named Valecian, was apoplectic. He wailed on the roadside as his staff attempted to salvage the remaining crates using their sleeping blankets and extra clothing, but it was all in vain. The profit of his entire journey was now down the drain. The other merchants shrugged; it was the way of nature. Bad luck. They gave up and retreated to a nearby pub.
But Ashwel did not move away as the crowd dispersed. He remembered helping injured merchants with bandages, which were prohibitively expensive due to adventurers and military personnel hogging most medical resources. A small idea sparked as he recalled that the properties of bandages matched those of silk. Even damaged silk, if dried, could still be used for bandages no matter how badly it was stained. The salvageable pieces could be dyed a darker color and sold as a different product entirely.
Looking more intently at the wooden crates, he recognized the grain as elven wood. He recalled it was a fairly exquisite type of wood, found only in the east of the empire where some elves resided. A carpenter could surely make something from it: a small chest, a jewelry box, a fancy portrait frame. The possibilities were many.
He walked up to the despondent merchant. Valecian was about to shoo the filthy boy away but paused as he listened more carefully to his proposition. Looking into the boy's earnest and intelligent eyes, a realization dawned. The boy was right. The wood was exquisite, too valuable to just throw away. In that moment, Valecian did not see a street rat. He saw a mind that found value where others saw only ruin.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Ashwel,sir."
"And what do you know of this,Ashwel?"
"I know that what is thrown away often holds value,no matter how small or big, sir," he said simply.
Valecian, a man who had built his fortune on recognizing opportunity, saw one now. He hired Ashwel on the spot—not for muscle, but for his mind. He put him in charge of receiving the convoys and analyzing damaged goods to see what was salvageable.
Ashwel flourished. He found a market for practically every kind of seemingly ruined item. He sold water-damaged silk to be dyed and resold, spoiled milk to farmers for fertilizer, and soured wine to pubs for use in cocktails. He sold all kinds of materials to smiths and carpenters. He bartered with countless merchants and sometimes outshone veterans who had been in the industry for decades. He worked harder than any competitor, and within the next two and a half years, the street rat was gone.
In his place stood Ashwel of Oaken Square, a young merchant known for his sharp eye and silver tongue. He was famous for his honest dealings and had somehow become one of the best deal-closers in the market. He struck hundreds of deals and secured multiple long-term buyers in that span of time. He now owned a warehouse and a tidy home near the city center, next to the market gates.
Now, standing in his home office, a letter held in his hands, Ashwel could tell from a glance at the seal that this was no ordinary correspondence. It was the seal of the Ravenstel house. He had learned of them from chatting with wandering travelers and regulars at the local restaurant. They were a high-ranking noble house that ruled the north, second only to the imperial family itself, commanding a vast military and known for being fair to their people.
Ashwel was wary. "Surely my business is too small for such a big player to even notice me." He sat in his chair behind the desk, wandering in thought. Curiosity got the best of him, and he broke the seal.
The handwriting was neat and tidy, but it contained shocking news. The letter informed him of Lord Theron's peaceful passing one month prior. It spoke of a will. And as Ashwel read on, the steady clatter of the market faded into the background.
The letter revealed that he was Duke Theron's grandson. It told the story of how his parents had been cast out of the family due to his father's drug addiction and severe drinking problems, which had caused countless scandals. The letter also stated that Lord Theron had never wished to be distant from Ashwel but had been denied visitation by Mark. He knew everything that had happened all those years ago.
The will stated that the entire estate—the lands, the title, the fortune—was left to him. It also contained a personal request from his grandfather, dated before his passing. He hoped his grandson would let go of the past and embrace the future. He had seen Ashwel's struggles and watched his new business begin and bloom. He wished for it to continue, urging him never to lose his passion and drive. The will requested that Ashwel enroll in the Royal Academy, the premier institution for learning swordsmanship, magic, statesmanship, and knowledge. It was a place his grandfather had attended, and where he had wished his son would continue his legacy. That had failed, and now he wished to see his grandson carry it on.
A lawyer's signature alongside the letter marked it as official.
The letter now sat on his desk as Ashwel was lost in thought. Suddenly, the room turned dark. Silhouettes began to appear in front of his desk. Ashwel widened his eyes to see armoured men clad in black, looking as though they had come for his head.