Chapter 58
Orion
Day 45, Day 5 on the Road
Kronfeldt
The harder I worked, the more I could push aside bigger problems, like the nagging questions in my head—questions that, in quieter moments, made me feel trapped, as if I were sinking into quicksand. Questions like, 'Is everyone in Thornhill going to end up as slaves?' or, 'How do we defend a small village of fifty people against powerful continent-spanning empires?’ But those were worries for another day, and I’d face them when I was ready. Right now, I needed to hit level ten in my Cook class and break through level six in my Throwing Weapon and Path of the Dagger skills. If I wanted to protect Thornhill—my people—I needed to grow stronger and trust that those back home, the holders, would do the same.
And thus, I busied myself at the food stall, serving burgers and steering clear of the 'chattel' situation—the human slaves Sophie and James had 'freed.'
My current distraction was handling the last few customers for the night, as our supplies of pickled cucumbers, buns, and condiments were nearly depleted. After serving the last two customers, I handed the reins to Slink, part of my plan to train him as my eventual replacement. The former stand owner nervously flipped the burger with care, though it landed a bit off-center on the onions. Watching him, I could tell he was experienced. Even if he'd never made a burger before, he took to my instructions in the kitchen like a prodigy. His knife skills and prep work were on par with a veteran’s, and he could keep pace with me despite not having a class. His body barely moved as he straightened the patty with a trowel and topped it with a slice of cheese once the onions had caramelized.
“Want to take over? As manager of this stand, I mean.” I asked.
“You mean you'll give me the stall back?” Slink’s ears twitched with excitement.
Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
“I’ll let you run it. You pay me a small royalty each day, and the rest is yours.”
“You’d really do that, milord?” Slink’s eyes almost watered.
"I’m just here to gain some experience and a bit of coin. I still need the stall for when I’m in town to... lev—uh, I mean, practice my trade. But I’ve got other things to handle around town.”
As I finished cleaning up, I handed each Nax and Fleetpaw three Thirds, knowing they'd likely pass it to their deadbeat father. Then I gave Slink five—generous, given most earned just one a day. He took his wages and, almost by reflex, began packing the tools and pans into the cellar, getting back into his usual routine before I took over.
“If I accept... can I sleep in the cellar, at least for now?” Slink asked quietly, clearly embarrassed.
His bedrolls were still tucked in the corners down there. The dank air made it far from comfortable, but I didn’t push the issue. He’d have enough Thirds for a proper room soon enough, but for now, it was his choice. If I kept shelling out for every pity case in this city, I wouldn’t have enough to get what I needed to protect Thornhill.
Can’t solve every problem in this town.
“Sure,” I handed him the keys. “I might not be here tomorrow, so hopefully you can manage it yourself.”
“Can I hire more workers?” Slink asked.
“You’re the manager. Just make sure Nax and Fleetpaw have a job here.” I turned away and waved goodbye, disappearing into the growing darkness of the night.
After converting part of my earlier earnings into higher coinage and deducting wages, the total from tonight's shift stood as follows:
5 First Mints
11 Second Mints
44 Third MInts
Plenty of money remained to buy supplies: a new cloak, bags, another pair of boots, more socks and undergarments, and plenty of glass bottles of cheap liquor—not for drinking, as I never found the taste of alcohol pleasant, but for the crafting of Molotovs.
Lamplighters dotted the streets, their flickering flames illuminating the clear night sky, while the entertainment district buzzed with preparations for the evening’s festivities. Spotting a musician—a gnoll with long fingers and a braided red ponytail—tuning his lute, I approached him with questions. There was one more important purchase I needed to make.
“Where can you purchase that instrument? Are you selling it?” I asked.
Gabriel, a singer and musician back in town, had asked me if I could bring him back a guitar on my trip. In return, when I built a tavern, he would play at it every week. He’d keep the tips of course.
“This is my livelihood, good sir,” the gnoll replied, fingers dancing over the strings of his lute. “If it be a guitar ye seek, best catch a ferry to Port Havenreach—this town holds no specialty music shops. Otherwise, venture to the general store or seek a craftsman at the Builder’s Guild, who might fashion one for ye.”
“Thank you,” came the reply, just as the gnoll coughed loudly and gestured toward the large leather hat open wide at his feet.
A Third dropped into the hat, though it felt steep for information that could have been pieced together independently.
Strolling the streets, I saw a large, captivated crowd gather near a puppet show stage. It was mostly composed of children with their hands covering their faces, while their parents nervously chewed on snacks. Wealthier families, dressed in their finest evening silks, occupied raised seats, sipping purple-colored liquor from crystal goblets and enjoying platters of tiny cakes.
With deft hands, the puppeteer brought two lion puppets to life, each move precise and mesmerizing. Bathed in enchanting lighting effects, the scene unfolded before a backdrop of a painted wooden plank resembling an iconic rocky cliff. Above the yellow lion puppet, adorned with a crown, hovered a more teddy bear-like version of a black-maned lion with a scar across its left eye. With every tug on the strings, the crown-wearing lion struggled to cling to the cliff's edge, its desperate movements vividly portraying the fight for survival against the perilous drop below where shadows of stampeding wildebeest flickered in the background.
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“Long live the king!” I heard in Lokan.
“Nooooooooooooo! Was cried out from the young lion cub in Lokan but in a foreign accent.
So this must have been what James was up to.
The crowd gasped and some children screamed as they watched the puppet dramatically thud on the stage floor, made by the sound of James stomping his feet on the cobblestones. Not a single watcher, not even the parents, had dry eyes when the young lion cub came over to find the body of the “dead” puppet king.
The man portraying the scarred lion sent an icy chill coursing through my veins as I caught sight of him behind the stage, deftly drawing skill cards from his palms to manipulate the effects unfolding before the audience. His features, long ears and far-apart eyes, mirrored those of the pirate wizard who had once invaded our shores, the same one responsible for Clark's demise, yet his appearance leaned more toward the human side of the spectrum. My hand instinctively reached for my throwing dagger, but I forced myself to resist. After all, James was working with him, suggesting he couldn’t be all that bad.
During the intermission, as Scar, the lion villain, proclaimed the dawn of a new age, shadows of hyenas flickered ominously in the backdrop. The audience was captivated, leaning forward in their seats, eager for more. James, disguised as a rabbit, joined the puppetmaster on stage, both bowing to the crowd, who clamored for the performance to continue. The duo moved among the audience, collecting coins as an incentive to keep the show going, and soon amassed a considerable bounty.
I already knew how this show would play out, so I left James to do his thing.
As I wandered through the entertainment district, each bright stall and lively crowd only deepened the guilt gnawing at me. Thornhill was struggling, and here I was, indulging in the city’s comforts. Sure, the thought of those hunting “Chattel” kept me on edge here, but that danger would still be present upon my return to Thornhill. It was a shame that humans had to live on the run. If it weren't for the pervasive slave trade, it would have been simpler to relocate our people here in a town already built. Instead, we were forced to take the long path to build a proper town from scratch with the looming fear of raiders and a foreign empire sweeping the lands for us.
A fortune teller caught my eye, draped in a hooded blue robe. She resembled a black cat, her gray-speckled fur, wise old eyes, and missing teeth giving her an air of mystique. Though her aura beckoned, superstition held little appeal for me. Just as I felt a shiver run down my spine, signaling that someone was approaching from behind, I instinctively reached for my stiletto—only to be startled by Sophie grabbing my arm.
She wore her boar mask and a flight attendant uniform that clung tightly to her body, the fabric enveloping her flesh against mine that left me confused, stunlocked, and annoyed.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that. I nearly stabbed you,” I said, letting out a deep breath before unclenching my hands on the grip of my dagger.
“Oh, come on, Orion, do you ever relax? This is why you’ll never get a girlfriend,” Sophie said mischievously.
“Were you doing Gachapon?” I asked her.
“Yeah, got quite a score this time, too. Those runners had orders to spend whatever for these teapots.”
“I see… who helped you?”
“My slaves.”
I sighed. “Don’t call them that, please.”
“Okay, okay, Edith and Wulfric did. I let Ulf take the night off; I don’t think we’ll squeeze much hard work out of those old bones.” Sophie stretched like a cat before resting her head on my shoulder.
“Where are they now?” I asked, shrugging my shoulders in an attempt to dislodge her clingy form.
“Back at the inn. Relax; I got them bedrolls. They’ll be hidden there for a while,” she replied, then pointed at the fortune teller. “Oh! Look. I want to try.”
Dragging me in front of the fortune teller, Sophie nudged me. “You owe me some commission. Pay her two Thirds.”
After I handed over the coins, the fortune teller produced a deck of cards. These weren’t the ordinary playing cards I used for my ordering system; they were longer, their backs painted with a black cosmos and shimmering stars.
The fortune teller drew a card and pushed it toward Sophie, who sat on the left side of the table. The card displayed a golden scale, its script unreadable to me.
“The Scale,” the fortune teller pronounced, her voice a soft, high-pitched meow. She quickly drew another card, placing it atop the first one before Sophie.
“The Maiden.” And then another.
“The Widow.”
“The Mountain.”
“The Gold Coin.”
“The Nomad.”
With six cards drawn, she fanned it out in front of Sophie. “If you wish for a reading, another Third shall be required.”
“This is an obvious scam,” I said, shaking my head.
Sophie was compelled by the cards and fetched a coin to get her reading.
Why do the quirky ones always get so into fortune-telling?
“A true master would demand no less than a Second for such a service. I am no master of the reading, but I shall attempt yours,” the Fortune Teller purred, her voice carrying an air of ancient mystery. “The cards tell the story of the Merchant’s Curse and the tale of being unable to let go: You are destined to amass great riches in your lifetime, yet be forewarned—you will only find what you wish for when it is too late.”
With her mask on, I had no idea what Sophie was thinking, but her body stilled.
The Fortune Teller turned her gaze on me, her hand hovering over the deck before she drew the first card.
“I don’t want to know,” I said firmly, but she continued nonetheless drawing cards and placing them in front of me.
“The Shadow.”
“The Mountain.”
“The Crow.”
“The Kingmaker.”
“The Rope.”
“The Chain.”
“Let’s go,” I turned around, but Sophie stayed, placing another Third on the table.
What was the point of listening to a prophecy? If it were a bogus scam, it wouldn’t matter. If it were a true prophecy, it would only be self-fulfilling. I would try to fight it and in the end, it would happen anyway.
Upon returning to the inn, I paid the innkeeper for a bath, which came with a pot of hot water and a fragrant bar of soap. As the satisfying rush of steam filled the room, warmth washed over me. I scrubbed away the day’s grime with my nails, lathered my face with suds, and then took the edge of my knife to shave it clean. Sinking into the moment, the tension in my muscles melted away.
Once refreshed, I ascended the creaking stairs, feeling lighter with each step. The comfort of the bath lingered, a brief respite from my worries.
On the floor lay the two men we had purchased earlier, the human natives and collared. One was an old, withered man in his fifties, while the other was a gruff thirty-year-old, his sunken cheeks framing strong, lean hands. Though accustomed to cramped quarters with practical strangers, I still gripped my dagger tightly as I settled into bed.
Sometime later, a half-drunk James crashed onto the bed beside me, his weight jostling the mattress. Rest eluded me, and I repeatedly rose to pace the dimly lit room, unease gnawing at my stomach, until sleep finally claimed me.
Morning came with the rhythmic chanting of our collared roommates rousing us from sleep. Kneeling on their bedrolls, both men had their hands clasped on their shoulders, eyes closed in silent reverence.
“Come to us, Erandor. Deliver us from bondage. Take us to Sanctuary. Come to us, Erandor. Deliver us from bondage. Take us to Sanctuary.”
“Erandor huh… Must be their god," James muttered, rubbing his temples and wincing as his hangover kicked in.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Dictionary card, and slid 'Erandor' into the slot. The word vanished as the card absorbed it, glowing briefly before revealing fragments of its translation.
“Hmm… strange. It’s not just a name; it’s a title. It’s not in Lokan but an unfamiliar language, though its etymology shares roots with a similar mother language. It comprises two words I recognize in Lokan.”
“What words?” I asked, intrigued, as I got up and stretched.
“The English translation would be something like ‘Magebane,’” James mused, shrugging as he tucked the card away.