As we trudge through the town, the scenery slowly grows less offensive, though the transformation is as subtle as the changing of seasons. I would say “more opulent”, but there is nothing approaching opulence here outside of the lord’s personal property. Even that edifice, a crude attempt at grandeur, makes sacrifices for defensibility. We are not so protected or so large a settlement in this area of the local kingdom to forego the thick, tall walls made of ugly grey stone that lead better to tight corridors than ballrooms and vaulted ceilings. The aesthetic, even in this relatively upscale region, is distinctly martial, a constant reminder of the potential for conflict and strife.

The main distinction between the haves and the have-nots in this town, if one could truly classify these people into such arbitrary categories, is whether the buildings are constructed of simple stone or decaying wood. This dichotomy, borne out of resource availability and economic standing, is a stark manifestation of the humanity’s inherent inequality. It's a division I find distastefully primitive, a visual reminder of societal failures. We are thankfully progressing to more of the former stone on our merry walk. Yet, even these more durable dwellings bear the telltale signs of wear and tear, a testament to their enduring struggle against the elements.

The road under our feet also transitions from the slick mud and other components I do not want to imagine to a paved stone. This shift not only saves my boots from being caked in foulness but also produces a satisfying click with each step. The rhythmic cadence of stone against the leather resonates in the still air, filling the silence between us. I derive a great deal of satisfaction from this sound, a small pleasure amidst the discomfort of this journey. I am aware, however, that it may be slightly intimidating to the girl still dutifully trailing a step behind me. Her steps, muffled by her inadequate footwear, lack the assertiveness of my own, reflecting her tentative place in this new arrangement.

As we venture deeper into the cobbled lanes, I find myself reflecting on the necessity of this interaction. The demands of the life I've chosen here in this town dictate the need for Claire's presence. I need her as an interface, a buffer between myself and the society I find myself embedded in.

Not that Claire herself is distasteful. In fact, her innocence is oddly refreshing, though it paints a stark picture of the struggles faced by those who inhabit this world. It is rather the requirement to involve myself in the intricacies of socioeconomic constructs, seeing the capacity for discrimination and division, that unsettles me. It’s a reminder of why I typically prefer solitude, away from the pettiness and flaws so inherent in most peoples’ ways of life.

Still, for my venture to gain the desired credibility in the eyes of this community, it is a compromise I am willing to make. While the necessity is a minor irritant, I recognize the pragmatism of the situation. After all, I have not come this far only to falter over minor inconveniences. My plans require a certain level of integration, an acceptance within society that can only be achieved with a degree of conformity. And so, I trudge on, Claire a silent shadow by my side, the sound of my boots on the cobblestone echoing in the morning air.

Our journey's end brings us before an unusual structure that stands out amidst the town's drab, weathered architecture. The two-story building is the result of half a year of careful planning and commissioning on my part. From the outside, its appearance is plain, austere even, a testament to my unyielding preference for function over form in this endeavor. The defining feature, the one element that might raise an eyebrow, is the quality and color of the stone. Each brick is fresh, with the shade of the lightest storm cloud, the masonry’s craftsmanship a notch above the town's usual fare. In stark contrast to the surrounding blackened and aged structures, this building appears almost luminescent, a beacon among shadows.

This edifice, my dwelling and future place of business, has been crafted with thoughtful intricacies that remain concealed from the casual observer. The ground floor, for instance, extends five feet into the earth, creating additional space beyond the surface's deceptive confines. This design, though requiring a descent upon entering, ensures better temperature control and further isolation, an element of utmost importance in my line of work.

The true stroke of extravagance, however, lies at the entrance. A pair of runic doors, beautifully carved and imported at considerable expense, guards the premises. The enchanting patterns and characters etched into their surfaces promise far more than just physical protection - they offer a degree of privacy and security that transcends the mundane. These doors are a solid wall between my world and the rest of the universe, a sanctuary from prying eyes and unwanted disturbances.

Above these grand doors, a sign hangs, obscured by a covering of coarse burlap. It remains a mystery for now, a promise of what's to come. A surprise waiting for the right moment, just as I waited for the right moment to approach Claire. The dawning of this new venture holds countless such surprises, for Claire and perhaps for me too.

It might seem curious to some, this structure's sudden existence and my apparent wealth in a town where economic disparity is painfully evident. The average resident may ask: How did I come to own such a property? Am I a wealthy benefactor, or perhaps a recipient of a grand favor? For now, the answers to those questions remain as concealed as the runic doors’ enchantments.

“I’ve never really been to this area of town.” Claire whispers in poorly placed admiration of our surroundings, “I never had a reason to visit any of these shops, and they probly would’ve kicked me out anyway.”

“That they likely would have.” I reply, fishing out my keys and inserting the hefty steel construct inlaid with silver runes into the locking mechanism. The construct eats a calculated pulse of mana before a matching silver pattern on the doors faintly glows, and a clunk is heard with the heavy bolt receding from the doorframe.

“Woah…” Claire’s eyes widen at the display, obvious to even those completely untrained in runecraft and mana usage. Understandable, as such a complex mana construct would normally be out of place in anywhere but a palace and the otherworldly touch of mana in general is both rare and disproportionately hoarded by the higher echelons of society. People in Claire’s position may have seen a few parlor tricks and displays of power from the nobility here and there but think of these abilities more as a fantasy than practical reality.

Stolen novel; please report.

This is a good sign. This is why I picked her out of that tavern. I need someone eager to learn and chasing a fantasy is fantastic motivation.

“Take off those shoes and leave them at the entry.” I say as I open the door and pass through the threshold. If she wants to come when we replace them with quality boots she will need foot coverings, but regardless a part of me is hoping the refuse collector will simply remove them as any other trash left out.

After a brief battle with her mud-caked laces and a double-back to close the doors (high end magic engraving and they still can’t close themselves, what an oversight) Claire joins me in removing our outer garments. Hers consists of nothing but the apron she is just now realizing she technically stole from her previous employer while I am expertly working the series of leather straps on my gambeson and the matching bindings of my boots. Once I have shrugged off the runically lightened but still burdensome covering, I motion for Claire's apron. It is a symbol of her past profession stained with hard work and little reward that I am eager to dispose of. As she hands it over, a trace of apprehension flits across her face, as if parting with this ragged piece of cloth might erase the little identity she had left. I turn and begin briskly walking deeper into the establishment, so Claire never catches the smile gracing my lips.

Our journey begins through the main shop area, an austere space by design, with wall-mounted racks and freestanding displays awaiting their inventory of weapons and armors. Here, the townsfolk will haggle and inspect, wholly unacquainted with the cutting-edge, enigmatically intricate mechanisms veiled behind the shop's comparatively mundane exterior.

Claire, a step behind me, breaks the echoing silence, her voice shaking slightly, "So...what exactly will I be doing?"

The question hangs in the cold, still air. I let it linger, my footsteps the only sound permeating the emptiness. Then, with an enthusiastic gleam in my eyes, I turn to face her, "You, Claire, will be the keeper of the shop."

Her brows furrow in confusion, "Keeper?"

"Yes," I reply, my lips curling into another small, uncharacteristic smile. "I have neither the patience nor the skill to engage with the patrons. You will handle them, maintain the appearance of the shop, negotiate prices... In short, you will be the face of this venture when I'm absent or immersed in my work."

Claire stands still, her brow furrowed in contemplation. The corners of her mouth pull down in an unsure frown as she processes my words. But I don't allow her much time to ponder over my declaration.

"It is more efficient this way," I add, a note of finality in my voice, "And much more agreeable than having a construct manage this task, especially in this...backwater area."

My words hang in the air between us. Claire remains silent, likely digesting the gravity of her new role. But behind her bewildered expression, I sense her resolve hardening. A new era has dawned for her, a far cry from her previous mundane existence.

To me, she is an indispensable asset, a bridge between my work and the world outside. She is a tool, not unlike the runic chisels and hammers that serve me in the forge. However, unlike the tools of my trade, she's a human being, possessing a potential that could be shaped and directed towards achieving my grand designs. In this, I find a familiar satisfaction.

A tool, a bridge, a necessary cog in the grand wheels of my plans — Claire is all of these, and perhaps even more. I am immediately validated in this belief as she quickly moves on to observe the empty display room.

"Where's the stuff?" Claire inquires, a frown knitting her brow.

"Patience, Claire," I respond, the cool stone walls amplifying my voice. "Merchandise will come in due time."

We proceed through the area in which I reluctantly allow the townsfolk to peruse, circumvent the sales counter, and enter a pair of hearty wooden doors behind. Beyond the shop, tucked away from the prying eyes of potential customers, lies the work area. The workshop is a haven of meticulous precision and order, its contents bearing testament to the attention to detail required in my craft. Rows upon rows of tools, from the simplest hammer to the most complex contraption, line the walls in a rigorously maintained sequence. Their polished surfaces gleam in the magical light, an organized orchestra of function and form, ready to play their part in the symphony of creation.

Instrumentation of measurement, from runic calipers to mana-infused micrometers, lay in a separate corner, their accuracy an essential element of any masterpiece. They whisper of dimensions dissected to the minutest detail, a discipline of exactitude that tolerates no room for error. The feel of these tools in hand, the weight of certainty they offer, is a reassuring presence in the capricious dance of creation.

On one side of the workshop stands an array of magically powered machining tools, a testament to technology's marriage with mysticism. Mana lathes and arcane mills hum with potential energy, their enchantments dormant until the moment their services are needed. Sparks of magical energy flicker around them, casting prismatic light against the otherwise stark surfaces, revealing their hidden power.

Beside these, rows of neatly racked chisels, awls, and pliers each have their place in the grand scheme. Their handles, worn from countless hours of manipulation, are a silent testament to work done and the work yet to come. Their purpose is singular, and their orderliness echoes my own relentless pursuit of perfection.

Such is my workshop, a sanctum of precision and order. A tangible embodiment of my craft, where metal and magic fuse under the weight of purpose and vision. This orderly chaos is not just a place; it's the physical manifestation of my relentless quest for perfection, a testament to the artistry forged within its confines.

"What's behind there?" Claire points to a heavy, rune-inscribed door standing sentinel at one end of the workshop.

"That," I begin, my gaze shifting to the imposing barrier, "is where the forge lies. Sealed, necessary for controlling its potent emissions when in full bloom."

Her eyes flicker with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, her imagination no doubt trying to conjure up the fiery beast behind the door. But this is not the time to stoke that curiosity.

We end our tour at a nondescript door located at the rear of the shop. Beyond it, a Spartan bedroom awaits. The utilitarian simplicity of the room contrasts sharply with the complexity of the adjacent workshop. Adjacent to the single, sparse table sits a stark wooden bed, its frame bare and mattress devoid of the comfort of any blankets or pillows.

Claire's voice is barely audible, hesitant, as she asks, "Where are the... um, blankets? And facilities?”

A moment of silence ensues as I process her question. A simple human necessity so easily overlooked. Because, of course, Claire would need such things. I consider this quietly, my own usual indifference to such trivialities causing me a momentary lapse in understanding her needs.

"Ah," I finally concede, a trace of regret, perhaps even embarrassment in my tone. "We'll sort that out come morning”.

Her gaze skates over the room one last time, landing finally on a window whose presence from the outside is cleverly masked by an enchantment. The rays of light entering from this singular portal to the outside being the only concession to comfort in the space. While I would like to claim credit for even that much, it was entirely accidental. I see her trying to piece together her new reality, apprehension, and anticipation warring in her eyes.

Retreating from her doorway, the echo of my steps concludes our journey. Internally chastising myself, I ponder how on eos I'm to acquire such mundane comforts in this backwater place. Despite the intellectual and arcane challenges I comfortably overcome, it seems the more human problems are the ones that stump me most.