A Weekend Routine

The weekends offered a brief respite from the structured regimen of Falmuth Military Academy. For Illiad, they were not only a chance to unwind but also an opportunity to step back into the bustling life of Qalbargh—a city teeming with energy, ambition, and secrets.

As he made his way through the crowded streets, he felt a sense of familiarity with the chaotic yet vibrant atmosphere. Vendors shouted to advertise their goods, from freshly baked bread to exotic spices. The occasional clink of coins changing hands punctuated the constant hum of conversation. It reminded him of the markets in Werfowl, though on a much grander scale.

Illiad weaved through the throngs of people with practiced ease, his sharp eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. The academy’s teachings had only sharpened his already keen instincts, making him hyper-aware of the subtle dynamics in the crowd. His destination was clear: the Grant General Store.

The sight of the familiar storefront brought a small sense of comfort. The wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and the bell jingled softly as Illiad pushed the door open.

“Back again, Illiad?” Tessara’s voice rang out as she looked up from the counter, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “At this rate, people might think you’re an employee.”

Illiad smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe I should apply. I could use the extra income.”

Tessara chuckled, motioning for him to sit by the counter. “So, what’s new at the academy? Learned anything that’ll make you a big-shot commander one day?”

Illiad gave her a brief rundown of his week, summarizing his training and studies. He kept the details light, avoiding any mention of the underlying tension between the nobles and commoners. He didn’t want to burden her with his frustrations—or his vengeance.

After catching up on his life, he shifted the conversation. “How’s the business doing? Is the double bookkeeping working out?”

Tessara’s face brightened. “It’s been a game-changer! Profits are easier to track, and everything’s more organized. We even managed to catch the culprit behind the missing funds.”

Illiad leaned forward, intrigued. “Who was it?”

Her expression darkened. “Someone from the financial department—someone my dad trusted. He’s been with us for years, and Dad treated him like family. To think he’d betray us like this...”

Illiad frowned. “Did he admit to it?”

Tessara shook her head, her frustration evident. “No. He keeps denying any involvement with outsiders, but the way he talks... It’s like he’s hiding something. He’s too defensive, too rehearsed.”

Illiad’s mind began to connect the dots. “Who would gain the most if your family’s business collapsed?”

Tessara didn’t hesitate. “Hugo General Store. They’ve been after the 10-year silk trade license that’s exclusive to us. My father earned that license by being the first to bring silk into Valtheris, but if we went under, they’d get it.”

Illiad’s expression remained calm, but inside, his anger boiled. He knew Hugo General Store was closely tied to House Rithane. Their fingerprints were all over this scheme.

“House Rithane is already moving their pieces,” he thought, his resolve hardening. “But not this time.”

**

An Unexpected Meeting

As Illiad wrapped up his conversation with Tessara, the bell above the store door jingled softly. Turning his head, he saw a man step inside—a broad-shouldered figure with a weathered yet noble air about him. His clothes, though practical, carried subtle marks of quality, reflecting both wealth and humility.

“Dad,” Tessara greeted warmly, “this is Illiad. He’s the one I told you about—the one who helped us with the double bookkeeping system.”

Fried Grant’s gaze landed on Illiad, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude. His eyes, sharp and discerning, held a quiet strength that spoke of years spent navigating the highs and lows of business.

“So, you’re the young man who saved us from quite the disaster,” Fried said, stepping closer. His voice carried the rich timbre of authority, but it was tempered by genuine warmth. “Thank you, lad. I can’t begin to express how much you’ve done for us.”

Illiad felt a pang of awkwardness under the man’s intense gaze. He wasn’t used to being openly praised—especially by someone he respected from his past life. Fried Grant had been a tragic figure in Illiad’s former years, a man whose downfall marked the beginning of Valtheris’ economic decline. Seeing him now, still strong and full of hope, stirred something unfamiliar in Illiad: a determination to protect him.

“It was nothing,” Illiad replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just a bit of advice. Tessara and your team did the real work.”

Fried shook his head. “Don’t downplay it. Without your suggestion, we might have lost everything. You’ve given this family a chance to breathe again.” To Illiad’s surprise, the older man bowed slightly, a gesture of profound gratitude.

Illiad quickly waved his hands. “No need for that! Really, I just shared a simple idea.”

Fried straightened, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Modest, too. That’s a rare trait these days.”

Eager to shift the focus away from himself, Illiad asked, “How’s business faring now?”

Fried’s face brightened. “Much better, thankfully. And we’ve started experimenting with new products. Have you heard of Giba Flowers? They’ve been cropping up in the markets recently. People say they’re great for treating headaches.”

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Illiad’s heart skipped a beat. Giba Flowers. The very name conjured memories of chaos and despair—a deadly pandemic, the Black Pox, that ravaged the kingdom in his previous life. The disease had claimed countless lives, thinning the population of Valtheris and weakening its royalist faction. It had taken two agonizing years before anyone realized that the humble Giba Flower held the key to a cure. By then, the damage had already been done.

Keeping his expression neutral, Illiad asked casually, “What’s their market price right now?”

“Quite affordable,” Fried replied, “though their uses seem limited to mild ailments.”

Illiad nodded thoughtfully. “I’d suggest buying them in bulk.”

Fried frowned slightly, intrigued but cautious. “Why do you say that? From what we know, they’re nothing extraordinary.”

Illiad leaned forward slightly, choosing his words carefully. “Where I come from, we’ve used Giba Flowers for more than just headaches. They’re potent when it comes to treating serious illnesses. If the word spreads, their value will skyrocket. It’s always wise to invest early, before the market catches on.”

Fried raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold claim. Are you certain about this?”

Illiad met his gaze, his voice steady. “As certain as I was about the bookkeeping system. Trust me on this.”

Fried studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “You’ve earned my trust once, lad. I’ll take your advice again.”

Illiad allowed himself a small smile. The Grants had unknowingly stumbled upon something that could change the fate of the kingdom, and he would ensure they capitalized on it.

As they talked a bit more, Tessara excused herself to attend to a customer. Illiad remained with Fried, sensing an opportunity to learn more about the man he once knew only from a distance.

“Why silk?” Illiad asked suddenly, referring to the product that had brought the Grants their initial success.

Fried chuckled. “Ah, silk was a gamble. When I first encountered it, I saw its potential—not just as a luxury, but as a symbol of ambition. It’s not just a fabric; it’s a statement. That’s what drew me to it.”

Illiad nodded, filing the information away. “And you’ve held onto the exclusive license for years now?”

“Ten years, to be precise,” Fried confirmed. His tone grew somber. “That exclusivity has brought us as much trouble as it has success. Rivals like Hugo General Store won’t rest until they pry it from our hands.”

Illiad’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “And you’re holding strong against them?”

Fried’s eyes glimmered with determination. “For now, yes. But it’s a constant battle. Trust, boy, is a fragile thing. Even the closest allies can turn on you when gold is involved.”

Illiad nodded, his respect for Fried deepening. “Stay vigilant, then. And keep pushing forward.”

Fried smiled, clapping a hand on Illiad’s shoulder. “Wise words for someone so young. You’ve got an old soul, lad.”

If only you knew, Illiad thought grimly. As he left the store that day, his resolve only grew stronger. Protecting the Grants was no longer just a means to an end—it was a promise to himself to rewrite the future.

**

A Hectic Return

As Illiad approached the dormitory after his day in the city, he noticed something unusual. The air around the entrance was tense, and the muffled sound of raised voices reached his ears before he even turned the corner. Steeling himself, he quickened his pace.

A small crowd had gathered near the dormitory courtyard, students huddling together and whispering nervously. Some craned their necks to get a better view of what was happening, while others averted their gaze, their expressions uneasy.

Illiad pushed through the throng, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto the source of the commotion. A group of noble students stood at the center of the scene, their uniforms pristine and their postures exuding arrogance. Surrounding them, a handful of commoner students sat or knelt on the ground, their faces pale and their uniforms disheveled.

The noble at the center—a tall boy with slicked-back hair and an air of entitlement—was sneering down at a commoner student clutching his arm, which was visibly bruised.

“You think you can walk around here like equals?” the noble spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “This academy was built for people like us, not gutter rats like you. Know your place.”

Illiad’s blood boiled, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the scene. He recognized some of the commoners as his classmates—quiet, hardworking students who had done nothing to warrant such treatment. Yet here they were, being humiliated and hurt simply for existing in the same space as the nobles.

“What’s going on here?” Illiad’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

The noble boy turned his head slowly, his sneer morphing into a smirk as he sized Illiad up. “Ah, another rat. What’s the matter? Come to defend your little pack?”

Illiad stepped forward, his movements deliberate and measured. He wasn’t one to rush into confrontations recklessly—especially not when the odds were stacked against him. But the sight of his classmates being bullied ignited a fire within him that he could not ignore.

“You’re making quite a scene,” Illiad said coolly, his gaze unwavering. “Is this how nobles show their superiority? By ganging up on those who can’t fight back?”

The noble’s smirk faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. “Careful, commoner. You’re treading on dangerous ground. You should be grateful we even tolerate your kind here.”

Illiad didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked around, taking in the faces of the gathered crowd. The other commoners watched him with a mix of hope and fear, while the nobles’ expressions ranged from amused to irritated.

Finally, Illiad’s gaze returned to the noble boy. “Tolerance isn’t a virtue when it’s used as an excuse to oppress. If you truly believe you’re superior, prove it through skill, not cruelty.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and the noble’s smirk twisted into a snarl. “You think you can talk down to me? A filthy commoner like you?”

Illiad’s eyes hardened, his voice steady. “I’m not talking down to you. I’m telling you the truth. Now let them go.”

For a tense moment, the noble seemed ready to retaliate. His fists clenched, and his friends shifted uncomfortably behind him, unsure whether to escalate the situation.

But Illiad stood firm, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the noble’s growing frustration. Finally, with a scoff, the noble took a step back. “Fine. Let them crawl back to their holes. They’re not worth the effort.”

The nobles turned and walked away, their posturing intact but their pride slightly dented. As they disappeared into the dormitory, Illiad exhaled quietly, the tension in his body easing.

He knelt beside the bruised student, offering a hand. “Are you all right?”

The boy hesitated before taking Illiad’s hand, his grip weak but grateful. “Thank you... I thought they wouldn’t stop.”

“You’re safe now,” Illiad assured him, helping him to his feet. “But this isn’t over. We need to be ready for the next time they try something like this.”

The other commoners gathered around, their expressions a mix of relief and admiration. One of them, a girl with a resolute look, spoke up. “They keep doing this because they think we won’t fight back. But if we stand together, maybe they’ll think twice.”

Illiad nodded, his mind already racing with strategies to protect his peers. The bullying was a symptom of the deeper divide between nobles and commoners—a divide that wouldn’t be bridged easily. But he was determined to change that, not through brute force, but through resilience and unity.

As the crowd began to disperse, Illiad stayed behind, his thoughts a turbulent mix of anger and resolve. The nobles’ arrogance reminded him all too vividly of House Rithane and the injustices he had endured in his past life. But this time, he would not stand by and let the powerful trample the weak.

Clenching his fists, Illiad made a silent vow: I’ll carve a path for those who deserve it—not for those who think they’re entitled to it.