Viktor and Arelos navigated the alleys and bustling paths of the Velvet District, their anticipation building as they neared Rogo's stall. The marketplace was alive with a vibrant energy, the sensory overload of colors, scents, and sounds creating a lively scene against the chill of the evening.
As they approached, they caught sight of Rogo engaged in a spirited discussion with a potential customer. The lady, cloaked in garments of fine fabric and an air of nobility, was examining a selection of porcelain plates laid out upon Rogo’s expanse of goods.
“These plates,” Rogo was saying, his voice smooth and persuasive, “are the finest porcelain. Handcrafted with the utmost precision. The glaze, the paint, the mastery! Not to mention, they’re as smooth as the finest silk, with not the slightest crack or blemish. And the price, my lady, it’s a bargain you won’t find elsewhere.”
The lady tilted her head, appraising the porcelain with a critical eye. Rogo’s persuasive charm met her cool demeanor, but a hint of doubt clung to her slender fingers as she trailed them over the plain white surfaces.
“They’re certainly fine,” she acknowledged, her voice carrying an accent of refinement, “however, they lack a certain expressiveness—a touch of personality, if you will.” Her gaze swept dismissively over the offerings.
Rogo, undeterred and ever the consummate salesman, leaned slightly closer, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Ah, but my dear lady, these plates’ simplicity is their strength! They complement any decor while allowing your exquisite taste to shine through.” He gestured expansively, emphasizing the supposed merit of understated elegance.
His words, however polished, seemed to make little impact. The lady’s expression softened not; instead, she offered a delicate yet resolute smile of polite decline.
“I’m afraid not,” she concluded, a trace of regret woven into her words. “What I seek is altogether different—something with... personality.” She turned away gently, sweeping her cloak around her with an air of finality, before melting into the crowd.
Rogo’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, a fraction of his earlier self-assurance dissipating with the lost sale.
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The boys had stood patiently while Rogo dealt with the customer, tuning in and out of the exchange, eager to discuss the progress of their candle venture. Now, seeing their turn, Viktor approached the man with a smile, heartened by the perceived success of their endeavor.
"I see the candles are all gone," Viktor began, an optimistic lilt to his voice. "I assume you managed to sell them? That's great! Well, there'll be more where that came from. Let's sort out the money now and..."
His words trailed as Rogo lifted a hand, interrupting Viktor with a strange assertion. "I'm sorry boys, who are you and what do you want?" Rogo inquired, adopting a feigned expression of confusion.
For a moment, Viktor was taken aback. "What are you talking about? We're the ones who handed over the candles that you were supposed to sell for us," he explained, a hint of incredulity tingeing his voice.
Rogo feigned mild perplexity, his expression infuriatingly bemused. "That doesn’t seem to ring a bell," he replied, a note of practiced innocence in his voice. "I'm sorry, boys."
Realization dawned slowly yet sharply on Viktor—this man was trying to swindle them. Anger swirled in Viktor's chest as he struggled to marshal his emotions. "You better not be doing what I think you're doing," Viktor warned, his voice edged with burgeoning fury. "Hand over our money."
Rogo clutched his chest in mock offense, laying on the theatrics with an exaggerated gasp. "Goodness, young man, what’s this? Threats—threatening an old honest merchant like that?" he accused, his tone an artful blend of wounded reproach. "You think I'll stand for this? Shall I call the guards?"
Viktor's noble instincts flared, a surge of righteous indignation bolstering his stance. "You calling the guards? I'm the one who ought to call them! Such behavior belongs in the dungeons," his voice carried the sharp edges of his upbringing, the entitlement and rough justice that simmered in the shadow of civilized decorum.
Rogo’s eyes narrowed, irritation surfacing beneath his composed facade. "The dungeons?! Boy, are you that deluded? Do you really think you can threaten an old man like me, eh? I'll call the guards right now and then we’ll see whose side they’ll take—some gutterspawn rat who's not from around here, or an honorable merchant from a respected house with a permit who’s been a part of this market for almost two decades." Rogo’s voice rose, barbed with aggression and the certainty of his seasoned position.
Viktor bristled, preparing to launch into another tirade of indignant protest. Yet, before a single word crossed his lips, Arelos interrupted, his grip firm on Viktor’s arm as he dragged him away from the merchant.
"What are you doing?!" Viktor hissed as they retreated, his anger bubbling over. "The man stole from us!"
Arelos, more serene than he seemed, maintained a steady pace as they moved further from the bustling stall. "Yes, Viktor," Arelos murmured, his voice calm, almost resigned. "He did. Now we deal with it and move on."
"Deal with it?" Viktor echoed, incredulity woven into his every syllable. "How? That man belongs in the dungeon."
Arelos sighed, his eyes scanning the busy market, aware of the limits of their influence here. "Maybe he does," Arelos conceded, his voice calm but edged with the resignation of one who has long navigated harsh realities. "But we've got no power here."
Viktor's frustration mounted as he struggled to reconcile the injustice before him. "Can’t we just explain it to the guards?" he suggested, his voice laced with desperation and a flicker of hope.
Arelos shook his head, keeping his voice even but unable to hide his own frustration. "He’s established, Viktor. He has standing... and we’re outsiders here." The words carried the bitter truth learned through experience, contrasting sharply with Viktor's dwindling optimism.
Viktor’s anger surged, battling against his noble instincts. "How can you just accept this, Arelos?" he demanded, accusations edged in his tone as if Arelos's resignation was a betrayal itself.
Arelos stopped and faced his friend, a frustrated sincerity in his eyes. "Because I didn’t grow up a spoiled noble like you," he retorted, heat beneath his normally calm demeanor. He immediately regretted the harsh comment, but Viktor's response was swift and stinging.
"Screw you, Arelos," Viktor fired back, his eyes briefly reflecting hurt before they hardened in anger. With a burning glance at Rogo, still standing in the background, Viktor turned sharply and walked away.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
There was a rupture between them, a fracture born out of insult and shattered expectations. Arelos stood there, trapped by remorse, as Viktor's figure dissolved into the market crowd.
As Viktor moved through the bustling lane, he wrestled with the chaos inside—a mixture of betrayal and frustration entwined with his uncomfortable confrontation with reality. Where once there was certainty in perseverance, now lay uncertainty, heavily weighed down by his human limitations.
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Arelos wandered through the busy market, his mind occupied with conflicted thoughts of the encounter with Viktor. The sting of their brief confrontation lingered, fueling his determination to set things right. As he navigated through the bustling stalls, he finally spotted Viktor sitting on a worn wooden bench not too far from the market's bustling core.
Viktor sat with his back slouched, his eyes fixed on the cobblestones below, lost in thought. He hadn't acknowledged Arelos's approach, and there was a tension in his posture that spoke of deep introspection. Despite the charged silence, Arelos took a seat beside him, maintaining a quiet presence, respecting the space Viktor seemed to need.
The minutes stretched on, the distant hum of the market filling the void between them. Though the silence persisted, it was imbued with the unspoken understanding that had always underpinned their friendship. Finally, Viktor broke the silence, his voice soft and tentative, barely cutting through the quiet.
"How long have you known? That I was a noble," Viktor asked, his eyes still fixed on the ground, the question hanging heavily in the air.
Arelos shrugged, carefully choosing his words as he replied. "From the start, really," he admitted. "The way you talk, the way you see things—it was always clear you'd come from money. At first, I thought you might be the son of some wealthy merchant or a magistrate's kid. It'd account for your education, sure, but then it was obvious Lycona wasn't your home. It left only the estates, and those are all owned by nobility."
Viktor nodded absently, contemplating Arelos’s words. "Why didn't you ever ask about it?"
Arelos gave a small, thoughtful shrug. "You never asked about my parents, either," he countered softly, his voice devoid of accusation, simply stating the truth.
"I tried," Viktor replied, looking up at Arelos for a brief moment. "But you seemed reluctant to talk about your past, so I just... let it be."
Arelos acknowledged the point with a nod. "Fair enough," he said, his voice contemplative. "Honestly, at first, I just didn't find it relevant. And then it seemed like something terrible had happened to you. After enough time had passed, it just felt awkward to ask. Plus," he paused thoughtfully, "I had my suspicions."
Viktor's gaze sharpened with curiosity and a hint of vulnerability. "What kind of suspicions?"
Arelos glanced down the market street, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd as he gathered his thoughts. "I recall, just a day or two before I met you, hearing rumors in town. A noble estate north of Lycona had burned down," he explained. "People talked about the entire family perishing in the fire. I can't recall the name, Avros or something."
Viktor's expression grew taut, as though the mention of that name unspooled a thread tied tightly to the past. "Avlorios," he corrected quietly.
Arelos met Viktor’s gaze steadily. "Yes, that’s right. That was them, wasn't it? Your family?"
Silence stretched heavy and thick between them as Viktor nodded, caught between the rawness of his memories and the shared understanding Arelos offered.
"So," Arelos ventured gently, "what happened? From what I heard, they said everyone died. How did they all—?"
"They were murdered," Viktor interrupted, his voice steady but laced with grief.
Arelos fell silent, allowing Viktor the space to speak, sensing the weight of unvoiced sorrow tangled with each word.
"But not you," Arelos prompted softly.
Viktor shook his head, a touch of bitterness edging his voice. "No, not me. But they thought they had."
Arelos accepted Viktor's words quietly, understanding without the need for further probing. The weave of silence that followed was almost comforting, a respite shared between heartache and comprehension.
After a long pause, Viktor began to tremble, the weight of his loss surging to the surface until it felt unbearable. Emotion overwhelmed him, and despite his efforts to hold it back, tears spilled in earnest, tracing paths down his cheeks. His voice was a whisper, heavy with unvoiced grief.
"I miss them," Viktor admitted brokenly, each word a confession of a wound laid bare. "My mother, my father, my little sister—they’re all gone. And Barath, and everyone else." His voice trembled, cracking under the burden of his emotions.
The dam of Viktor's composure gave way, his sobs emerging in harsh, pained gasps while Arelos sat quietly beside him, extending a comforting presence rather than forcing words upon the moment.
Viktor's heartache surged forth, carrying with it memories that refused to stay buried, interspersed with the echoes of laughter and warmth snatched away too soon. Each sob was an unraveling, a cascade of raw emotion spilling into the spaces between them.
Gently, Arelos placed a reassuring hand on Viktor's shoulder. It wasn't a solution, but a simple gesture of comfort to remind him he wasn't alone. Together they sat, wrapped in a silence that acknowledged Viktor's grief, while distant clouds moved slowly across the afternoon sky.
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After Viktor's emotions had run their course, leaving him with a sense of calm tinged with melancholia, he turned to Arelos, wiping away the tracks of his tears. "What about you? What happened to you?" Viktor asked softly, his voice touched with sincerity and a quiet curiosity.
Arelos met Viktor's gaze, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features before he shrugged, a gesture both resigned and introspective. "Honestly, it's not an unusual story," Arelos began, his voice carrying a blend of resignation and acceptance. "My family was tending some farmland in the south, not too far from Lycona. About three years ago, the Withering swept through, claiming farm after farm."
Viktor listened intently, sensing the weight of Arelos's words and the burden of the memories he spoke of.
"First, my mother fell ill," Arelos continued, each word unveiling a piece of his past. "Then my father, tending to her, succumbed as well. He died just a week after she passed." A slight tremor shadowed Arelos's voice.
He paused, as though navigating the currents of a memory too painful to dwell upon. "And then there was my..." he trailed off, a shadow passing over his face as he consciously shifted the direction of his words away from the unspoken story lingering in his thoughts. "Anyway," he continued, shaking off the momentary pause, "with nothing left for me there and no one to rely on, I decided to try my luck in the city. I guess that's where our similarities start."
Viktor nodded, a soft understanding shimmering in his gaze. He allowed the silence to stretch between them, the gentle embrace of shared empathy wrapping around their words.
The two boys both leaned back against the bench, gazing up at the overcast sky as they let the quiet speak for them, the bond between them strengthened by their candor.
After some time, Arelos broke the silence, a hint of humility coloring his voice. "Look, Viktor," he said, sincerity saturating his words, "I know you've had it tough. I didn't mean what I said earlier—I didn't mean to call you spoiled. My own frustration at that scum of a man got the better of me."
Viktor chuckled softly, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "And here I thought you were all cool, no emotions," he teased, now more animated. "You seemed so calm even while that scoundrel was blatantly ripping us off."
Arelos shrugged, allowing a small, wry smile to play on his lips. "I guess we each have our ways of dealing with things," he replied, his voice soft yet honest.
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After the candid exchange between Viktor and Arelos, the boys lapsed into silence, digesting the shared revelations and the ebbing emotions of their conversation. Viktor gave a small, tired chuckle, breaking the quiet with a remark that held a hint of lingering frustration, "I'd love to see the merchant's smug face turn purple with a good throttling," he muttered, his voice carrying a playful edge that undercut the sting of their earlier setback.
Arelos chuckled, his tone light with wry amusement. "Well, perhaps the candle business simply isn't our calling," he suggested, a twinkle of humor lightening his gaze. "Turns out margins were tighter than we anticipated... and it seems like trust isn’t exactly abundant in the marketplace."
Viktor nodded, sharing Arelos's sentiment even as his mind wandered to the myriad schemes they had envisioned. The allure of their planned triumphs now seemed a far-off mirage. "Guess I figured starting a business was easier than it looks," Viktor admitted ruefully.
Arelos kept his eyes on the passing crowd, absorbing the bustling activity with a detached air. "Live and learn," he replied philosophically. "The world’s more complex than it seems. But we’ve got time to figure things out." A hint of determination flickered in his eyes, faint but persistent.
Viktor let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of their failure. "Well, no use sulking. Let’s at least go grab our coin from Brack. He wouldn’t try to pull the same shit... right?" His tone was casual, but the sideways glance he shot Arelos carried a flicker of doubt.