Stoutbrooke's Emporium of Literature and Curiosities is on the edge of the main merchant’s quarter in the northern ward of the city. It’s in a massive, three-level (plus a basement) building at the center of a grand shopping arcade that I’ve only seen the like of in London. The pathway there is cobblestoned and has a high arched roof, which is gorgeous, but when the wind blows, it can cut through the arcade like a blustery knife.

The store itself is in the front half of each of the three levels, while fairly massive living quarters are in the back. Flynt says it’s only because his elven father has been in Oosal for centuries that they’ve been able to afford the place. It was only yesterday that we discovered that not only do they own the store, but they’re landlords to the whole arcade.

Well. His father is anyway.

Which explains a lot, if we’re being honest, even if not why Flynt is involved with the likes of us. We still haven’t convinced him to divulge the promise in his letter—the thing he desires most and that this mysterious Z is in a position to grant him—but it can’t be money. At least, we don’t think it could be. Not only does his family seem fine to say the least, but he just doesn’t strike us as the materialistic type of guy.

Mr. Stoutbrooke, Flynt’s “Da”, lives off the premises, so we’ve been permitted to make use of the living quarters alongside his son. Mr. Stoutbrooke is, by all accounts, a very kind man, much like Flynt. He is well-liked in the community, participates in charities, sits on the informal town council, and is the sort of rich guy that people hold up as the example of what every working class person thinks they’d be if only they were wealthy. Everyone loves him, and he likes everyone.

Except me.

Mr. Stoutbrooke, for reasons completely unclear to any of us, despises me.

We can see it in his face the moment we step in. He has a smile for everyone, a warm greeting, and then for me it’s a stone-faced, “Keira.”

“Sir.”

And that’s that. With the barely contained snickers of teenagers trying to pull off sobriety in front of their parents, we head up the stairs to the middle level living area and its library.

“I just want to know what his deal is.” I drop into my usual high-backed over-stuffed chair by the fireplace and begin to unlace my boots. “Do I smell? Is that it? Have I offended his elven senses with my adventurer’s musk?”

“I’d say that he could be one of those self-hating elves,” Meg says, following my lead in freeing her feet from their leather enclosures. “But he does seem to have totally normal relationships with pretty much every other elf in this city.”

“Except for me.”

“Except for you.”

“I just don’t understand it.” I sigh, looking over to Flynt, who has settled at his desk in the corner—though he hasn’t turned away from us to write his most recent journal entry yet. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Keira, I do not know my father as well as you’d think.”

“I know, you say that every time, but can’t you talk to him? Break down the walls, Flynt. Have a meaningful conversation with one another.”

“About you.”

“Exactly!” I lean back over the arm of the chair to catch sight of Jonas, lounging at the gaming table with our rogue as Tyrus diligently counts out the silver we got in exchange for turning in the thorg mission. The two of them typically pair up, though their flirtations have eased some. They’ve either gotten it out of their systems, or they have decided to slow-burn it, and I can’t tell which—and frankly, it’s none of my business as long as it doesn’t negatively impact the party. “I think he’s getting it now.”

“By Zendriel’s wings, maybe,” Jonas gasps theatrically, which I can always count on him to do, and in sync we whip our gazes back toward Flynt, who can’t help but chuckle.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“I don’t know why my father doesn’t like you, Keira, but I agree that for some reason he doesn’t. Can we leave it at that?”

“At least you’re not trying to deny it anymore,” I grumble, finally pulling off both my boots and flexing my feet. My big toes crack and Meg cringes. “Is it my ears? Is it because they’re especially long? I can’t help that, you know. That’s just how they are.”

My ears are more in the realm of Zelda than anything else, while his father and, frankly, Flynt himself are definitely more in line with the Peter Jackson styling.

“You are the most insecure person I have ever met, do you know that?”

“That cannot be true. But notice how he obfuscates.”

Flynt sighs and stares at me, defeated. I only smile back.

“Flynt, seriously though, as long as I’m still allowed to stay here, I can live with it. Not everyone has to like me. It’s fine. I’ll endure.”

Tyrus scoffs at that. “You say this, but the next time we have an Elder Stoutbrooke run-in, you’re going to start in on it all over again.”

“At least I’m consistent.” I tuck my feet up underneath me and sigh. “Hey, Flynt? Friend? Buddy? Pal?”

“I’ll light the fire,” he says, heavily. He stands and wanders over, muttering under his breath as he rubs his hands together, gives me a look, then crouches in front of the fireplace to send a small zap at the wood. With that magical spark, the fire blazes to life, warmth instantly jumping out at me. I sigh in contentment. One of the many things I’ve discovered in my time in Qeth is that elves get cold very easily.

“Thank you.” I grin at him.

“Mm.” He pushes himself back up and returns to his desk.

This time, he does sit at it properly, turning his chair to face the wall as he opens his journal and picks up the quill pen. The room falls quiet as we all exist in each other’s company. I even start to doze off a little, listening to the hushed banter of the two men behind me, the scratching sound of Flynt’s quill, Meg’s soft breathing, the crackling of the fire.

The last time I felt peace like this in the presence of people not actually my family was years ago, before the pandemic. I was having a terrible depressive episode, but I forced myself out of the house to meet up with friends at one of their apartments. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was the thing I needed, and I ended up curled on the couch like a cat, dozing while they talked and laughed around me about books and movies and anything else. It was… peaceful.

This feels a bit like that: casual comfort with one another. The fact that it’s been such a short amount of time doesn’t seem to matter much.

“Flynt?” There’s a muffled male voice at the door and a light knock before it opens. Druey, one of the shop’s clerks, peers in, holding up a folded letter. “This was delivered for you downstairs.”

Flynt crosses over and takes it, thanking the young human guy, who then quickly disappears the way he came. The door closes behind him.

Flynt holds the letter up to us, and in the magical lamplight and glow of the fire we can see the ‘Z’ stamped in wax at the seal.

“Finally,” Tyrus grumbles.

“Flynt, open it,” Meg says, waving a hand. “Theatricality isn’t your style.”

“Is this harass Flynt day?”

“You ask as if that isn’t every day,” Jonas points out, laughing.

Flynt cracks a smile at that and shakes his head as he pops open the seal and unfolds the letter. He frowns. “Well, that’s anticlimactic.”

“What does it say?” I ask.

“It says: Good job with the thorgs, glad it wasn’t any worse than that. Meet at the Wide Sky for your next assignment.”

“At least there is a next assignment,” Meg says. “And we’re not waiting days for it like last time.”

“It better not be another fetch quest,” I mutter. “If we have to do another rare flower collection, I’m going to be mad.”

“I still think that has to have been a joke,” Meg replies.

“If so, it wasn’t a very funny one,” Jonas says. “Even Flynt agrees.”

“I do actually have a sense of humor, you all know this, right?” Flynt’s steel eyes survey us. “I’m not serious all the time.”

“Just most of it,” Tyrus adds.

Flynt sighs again. “Keira, I blame you for this.”

“Does it say when we should meet?” Meg interrupts.

He shakes his head. “Nothing specific.”

“Well, we can relax here a little while longer, let our Elf Girl warm up a bit, and then we can go for a late dinner to see what Nyssa has to say. Sound like a plan?”

“Works for me,” Tyrus says. “Meanwhile, all of you come and get your silver pieces. One stack for everyone. Thirty-three each, and thirty-five for the group funds.”

We all move toward the card table and pick up our shares. As the one with the magical bag, I’m the stuff handler for the group, which includes holding onto the communal money, so I take that share as well, dropping those coins into the red velvet pouch we’d procured for such a use.

It’s Jonas’s turn to sigh heavily as he stares at the silver pieces in his hand. They’re not coins in the sense that I’m used to, more square tabs of fine metal with the stamp of the realm on them: the stylized Qethian ‘Q’ that I remember seeing from the promotional material for the Immersive Experience that brought me here.

Meg glances at him. “Don’t you start too. We’re doing fine. And besides. What exactly is it you’re wanting to buy that you can’t right now? Hm?”

“I have a wishlist,” Jonas says almost defensively. “Ambitions.”

“Alright. On that note.” I tuck both my coin purse and our communal funds back in my bag, then head to the door. “I think I still have some thorg goo on me, so I’m going to go take a hot bath and change before dinner. Come get me when you all are ready to leave.”

Plus, I need some alone time to discover all my options for [Level 3].