When they finished in the storeroom and returned to the front of the shop, Roland slid his notebook back into its place beneath the counter and wiped his hands on his trousers. The fine dust from the cores,and that cold, metallic warehouse smell,still clung to his skin.
It hadn't been long before the door opened again.
A man stepped inside wearing a leather jacket, a sword strapped across his back, and a bag that looked heavy enough to drag his shoulder down.
Roland recognized him immediately.
He didn't know the man's name, but he'd seen him a few times before,always in the same kind of state: tired, a little banged up, like someone who'd just crawled out of a dungeon or was about to head right back in.
"Morning," the adventurer said as he approached the counter. "Heard you've got new cores."
Mr. Klein lifted his eyes from the paperwork.
"Depends which kind you're looking for," he replied evenly.
Roland reached for the sales ledger, opened it to a blank page, and dipped his pen into the inkwell, ready to record.
"Low and mid-grade," the adventurer said. "For weapons and a couple simple artifacts. Nothing for powering the city."
The merchant nodded and reached under the counter, pulling out a crate with a marking Roland recognized,one of the shipments they'd received a week ago from another noble house, the Piasts.
"These will do," Mr. Klein said, setting it on the counter. "Prices are higher than last week."
"They always are," the man muttered, though he didn't look surprised.
Roland listened closely as he wrote,quantity, grade, price. Every transaction had to match down to the last piece, or later the accounting would turn into a nightmare.
"The dungeons by the north gate are starting to get dangerous," the adventurer said while counting out coins. "If they're not sealed within a few days, the whole place could overload. I swear, I don't know what those damn noble houses are waiting for."
Mr. Klein didn't comment on the complaint, but Roland filed the information away anyway, stacking it beside other similar remarks he'd overheard before.
When the adventurer left, a pair of traders came in. You could tell by their clothes and the way they moved,people used to bargaining and calculating profit with every breath.
"We heard you're one of the only shops in this city with cores," one of them said, leaning on the counter. "We're interested in mid-quality. For resale."
Roland understood immediately: they were going to try to drive the price down.
Mr. Klein laid out several crystals on the counter and calmly explained the differences,pointing out tiny flaws, clarity, the way the light sat in the material,while the traders exchanged looks and half-whispered comments, building arguments for negotiation.
"This one has a stain," one of them said. "Price should be lower."
"It is," the merchant replied without emotion. "It already has been."
Roland wrote everything down with care, noting not just the sale but the quality remarks as well. He knew those same crystals could come back later,someone trying to demand a refund, or flip them through the shop again.
Behind it all, he could hear other customers talking as they browsed, gossip passing between them like loose change.
"Supposedly one of the houses is preparing a bigger expedition," someone murmured.
"Did you hear about the fee increases at the gates?"
"Guards are patrolling the commercial district more often…"
Roland didn't look up.
He wrote.
He recorded every sale, every name, every quantity,while listening, because he knew these conversations were rarely meaningless. Information moved faster among merchants and adventurers than it ever did through official announcements.
When the last customer left, Mr. Klein set his papers aside and looked at Roland.
"Your records are good," he said simply.
Roland nodded, a small spark of satisfaction warming his chest. He allowed himself a brief smile.
It had been an ordinary workday.
But Roland knew the more ordinary days he survived, the better he'd understand how this world truly worked.
Once the final customer was gone and the door shut with the soft chime of the bell, Roland put down his pen and checked the ledgers again,making sure every sale was recorded correctly, every number aligned, nothing drifting out of place.
Mr. Klein glanced over the entries only briefly before nodding in approval.
"You can go home," he said calmly. "I'll handle the rest."
Roland looked up.
Usually he helped close out the books, but if the merchant said so, Roland wasn't going to argue.
"Alright, Mr. Klein," he replied, lifting his belt with its pouches and slinging it over his shoulder.
Mr. Klein closed one of the ledgers, then studied him a little more closely.
"My son returns tomorrow," he added after a moment, a clear thread of longing in his voice. "Edgard too. They've been on the trade route nearly a month."
Roland paused.
"He's coming back tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yes. We'll need extra hands," Mr. Klein said. "You'll help them settle back into our way of doing things."
Roland nodded.
He'd known the merchant's son years ago. They weren't close friends, but they'd always gotten along.
"See you tomorrow, Mr. Klein," Roland said.
"Tomorrow, kid," Mr. Klein replied with a small smile, already returning to his documents.
Roland stepped out of the shop, and the evening air hit him at once,cooler, sharper,as he headed back toward the outer district.
The walk home was quieter than the morning.
Some stalls were already closed. The merchants' cries had faded, replaced by the low hum of people returning from work.
When he reached the apartment, a light was already on inside.
His mother was in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner.
"You're back earlier than usual," she noted when she saw him.
"Mr. Klein's closing the books himself today," Roland said as he took off his shoes and returned his belt to its place.
He sat at the table, fatigue settling into his legs.
A little later, his father came in,smelling of sweat and dust,setting his things down against the wall.
"Long day," he muttered.
Dinner was simple, but warm.
Roland listened to his parents talk about work and the small problems of the day, while his thoughts drifted to tomorrow,and the fact that someone new would be in the shop.
That night, he slept peacefully.
The next morning began the same as always.
Breakfast. The walk through the outer district. The familiar sight of workshops and warehouses.
When Roland entered Mr. Klein's shop, the bell over the door rang like it always did.
The smell of metal and cores was the same as the day before.
Mr. Klein was already there, reviewing yesterday's documents,checking the numbers and the notes Roland had left in the ledgers. He always did the final closeout himself. He trusted no one enough to hand them the last step.
"You're on time," Mr. Klein said.
"As always," Roland replied with a faintly ironic smile as he set his things down,because most days, being punctual was the exception, not the rule.
At the bratty answer, Mr. Klein smiled to himself and shook his head slightly.
"Then, Mister Punctual, you can start with these ledgers," the older man said, dry amusement in his tone, gesturing to a stack of books on the desk.
Roland frowned at the pile, but didn't complain. He took off his belt with the pouches, put it away, and reached for the ledgers.
He began by copying over a few small notes about inventory. After yesterday's sales, some stock needed to be marked as reserved or set aside for resorting.
He worked steadily, focused on the numbers. Experience had taught him mornings were best for this kind of task,later, customer chatter, negotiations, and constant interruptions made mistakes far too easy. And mistakes in the core and crystal trade didn't just cost money. They could bring trouble from people who didn't like it when things didn't add up.
The door didn't open again for quite a while.
When it did, a young man stepped in. He wore a traveler's jacket and sturdy boots scuffed by long roads,proof at a glance that he wasn't a typical city customer, but someone who'd spent weeks beyond the walls, on trade routes where conditions were harsher and safety depended more on luck than on guards.
Mr. Klein didn't look up right away, as if he wanted to make sure the numbers on the page were correct before allowing himself to recognize the figure standing a few steps away.
When he finally raised his eyes, he stared at the young man in silence for a moment, judging him the same way he judged merchandise,posture, clothes, the way he carried himself after a long journey.
"I see you're back," Mr. Klein said at last, calm as ever. "And the caravan,or wild monsters,didn't eat you on the way."
The son gave a small smile, but didn't answer immediately. He took off his jacket and hung it on the wall hook first, like he needed to step back into the role of someone at work instead of someone on the road.
"There were a few moments where it almost happened," he said finally. "Especially on the eastern route. Mages show up a lot less out there, and there are far more dungeons than around here. On top of that, caravans have to handle things themselves,there aren't many mages willing to travel that way."
Mr. Klein nodded, not looking surprised.
"That's why I sent you there," he said. "Ledgers won't show you what trade looks like beyond the walls."
Roland kept writing, but he listened carefully. Conversations like this often held more practical knowledge than any lesson.
"I saw cities where cores are piled in crates out in the squares because there are too many of them," the son continued. "And cities where people fight over every stone,even if it's cracked and barely useful for anything."
Mr. Klein closed one of the ledgers and looked at him more intently.
"Are you finally going to answer the question I asked you a few years ago?" he asked.
"That price doesn't depend on quality alone," the young man replied without hesitation. "It depends on fear, on rumors, and on who controls the road the goods have to travel."
The merchant nodded, as if that was exactly what he'd expected.
"And people?" he pressed. "Caravans, traders, adventurers, elite houses, mages?"
"Everyone plays their own game," the son said. "Traders lie, adventurers exaggerate, and guards look away if they're given something in return. Elite houses think they're above everyone else just because they're the only ones who can use magic." He paused, then added with conviction, "But despite all the differences, everyone wants the same thing,stability. Even if they claim it's profit."
Mr. Klein returned to the documents.
"Good," he said shortly. "Then the trip wasn't wasted."
But the young man knew his father well enough to hear what wasn't spoken,to read it in the gestures and the tone. Mr. Klein was pleased. Truly.
Roland wrote another entry into the ledger, thinking that this was exactly why Mr. Klein had sent his son onto the trade routes instead of keeping him safe in the shop. Experience beyond the walls was something you couldn't learn from books, and not even from listening to customers.
The merchant's son stepped closer to the counter and leaned on it, glancing at the entries Roland was finishing.
"Still guarding the numbers," he said. "Looks like nothing's changed."
"Someone has to," Roland replied without looking up. "Otherwise they'll fall apart fast."
The other boy let out a short laugh,not mocking,as he looked at the kid behind the counter.
"When I was your age, I was obsessed with numbers too," he said with a grin. "But I still think negotiating and selling is way more interesting."
Mr. Klein lifted his eyes from the documents.
"Enough talking. Edgar,show Roland what you brought back from the last route."
The young man nodded and stepped away from the counter.
For the first time, Roland really looked at him properly,and a thought surfaced, sharp and unmistakable.
This wasn't going to be an ordinary day.