Cliff leaned forward over the table, feeling the anticipation of his audience. The oil lamps illuminated the polished oak, casting warm shadows that seemed to pulse with each word he spoke.
“… and as you can see,” he said, holding up a finely crafted sword embedded with a glinting, milky heartstone, “these are more than just tools. They’re made with respect for the land and creatures who grant them.” The crowd around him murmured approvingly. Cliff caught sight of several nodding faces, customers clearly impressed by his craftsmanship and ethics. Yet, he also noticed a few unfamiliar faces in the back—merchants who’d been eyeing his business for weeks, envious and resentful that he’d been drawing their clients to his small, but thriving, shop.
The spies didn’t buy a thing; they simply watched, their gazes as sharp as daggers.
The crowd’s warm murmur began to settle as a slow creak sounded from the door, drawing everyone’s attention. In walked a young man cut a sharp figure, tall and sleek, his long, black coat tailored to perfection. His hair, polished to a sheen, reflected the oil lamps’ light in a way that felt deliberate, as though every detail of his appearance was carefully curated for effect. He was like a weasel in a merchant’s suit, slick and a little too self-assured, the kind of man who always made Cliff wary.
Cliff’s stomach churned as the newcomer’s gaze fixed on him with a smug grin.
Behind him was a scurrying assistant, a small man with round glasses who whispered, “Master Desmond, perhaps now is not the best—”
“Stay outside,” Desmond said sharply, not sparing him a glance. The assistant, with a quick nod, backed out, leaving his employer to survey the room alone.
Desmond let the silence linger, the smug curl of his lips widening as he sauntered forward. His arms folded over his chest, and he came to a stop before Cliff’s table, effectively casting a shadow over the proceedings. His gaze flickered over Cliff’s stock, his smile turning into a sneer.
“So, I hear we’ve all gathered to admire some… subpar gear?” Desmond’s voice oozed condescension as he looked around the room, addressing everyone but focusing his attention squarely on Cliff. “You’re all really considering his so-called ‘ethical’ wares?”
The other merchants exchanged uneasy glances, and Cliff felt a flicker of doubt ripple through the crowd. He swallowed, keeping his face steady, but his jaw clenched.
Desmond took another step, leaning down with his hands on the table as if inspecting the goods. “I’ve heard rumors about this Roc heartstone you’re so proud of, Cliff,” he drawled, tapping the blade that lay on the table. “But everyone knows the real stones? They’re bigger, stronger. This?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “This is probably some pebble you found by the river.”
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One of the onlookers shifted, casting a wary look at Cliff, the doubt contagious. Cliff’s throat felt tight, and his mind raced, the words he wanted to say trapped in his throat. Desmond’s presence was like poison, seeping into every corner of the room, casting a shadow on all the hard work Cliff had put into building trust with his customers.
Desmond smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting. “And let’s be real,” he continued, standing upright and clasping his hands behind his back in a calculated show of confidence, “why would anyone risk their lives on a product that might break after a couple of uses? You’re all putting your faith in something that hasn’t even been tested.”
The merchants around him exchanged glances, their whispers growing louder. Cliff felt a stab of panic, but before he could gather his thoughts to respond, the door creaked open again. Cliff’s eyes flicked to the entrance, and his heart lifted.
Neil stepped in, his usual easy smile replaced by a serious expression. There was a quiet confidence to him that immediately commanded attention.
“Funny you say that,” Neil’s voice cut through the air, calm but with an edge that silenced the whispers. He made his way over to Cliff’s side, resting his hand on the table. “Because I’ve used Cliff’s gear in the Veil of Skymire. You know, that dungeon you lot keep boasting about but have never actually stepped foot in.”
Desmond blinked, his smirk faltering. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Neil chuckled, shaking his head slowly, his voice carrying a faint hint of amusement. “Of course you don’t. You’ve never left the comfort of your cushy stall, have you? Save for now. Meanwhile, Cliff’s gear has kept me alive in places you’d never survive.”
The room stilled, the merchants falling silent as they looked from Neil to Desmond, their eyes sharp with interest.
Desmond opened his mouth, fumbling for a retort, but words failed him. The smugness was gone, replaced with uncertainty, a faint flicker of annoyance in his eyes as he found himself outmatched.
Seizing the moment, Cliff straightened, his voice steady as he addressed the room. “What I offer here,” he said, gesturing to the array of equipment on display, “is crafted with care and respect for the creatures and lands we rely on. This isn’t just about profit. The heartstones are smaller because they’re harvested without harm. Even the Silverfang Roc that granted it would live to see many more years. What we’re doing here is a step toward something that lasts.”
A hush fell over the room, the merchants and customers watching Cliff with newfound curiosity. Desmond’s sneer had vanished, his jaw clenched in frustration.
Neil leaned in, raising his hand to display the plated armor Cliff had crafted. “And for anyone doubting the quality?” he said, smirking. “Look here. Cliff’s gear has been through hell and back, and it’s still as sturdy as the day I got it. I’d stake my life on this man’s work. Oh wait, I already have.”
The crowd murmured with interest, several people craning their necks to get a better look at the armor. The skeptical expressions softened, replaced by something closer to respect.
Desmond’s gaze narrowed, his voice dropping to a low hiss as he looked between Cliff and Neil. “This isn’t over.”
“Maybe not,” Neil said, unfazed. “But today? You’re done.”
Desmond scowled, spinning on his heel and stalking out of the shop, his assistant scrambling after him. The murmuring crowd followed Desmond with their eyes, many of them openly smirking at his retreat.