Alric slowed as he approached the merchant buildings. Painted signage ran along their fronts, the lettering immediately catching his eye. The words looked stretched, distorted in subtle ways that made his gaze slide rather than settle. He could read them, easily enough, but doing so felt faintly uncomfortable, like pressing his thoughts through something too narrow.

  He glanced toward Tyke, half expecting a comment, but the boy kept walking, kicking his heels forward with idle energy. A moment later Tyke peeled off to the opposite side of the street.

  “I’ll wait here,” he said, pointing at a low crate near the road. He dropped onto it and shifted his weight, settling in with the instinctive precision of a cat finding a comfortable spot.

  Alric grinned, nodded, and continued on alone.

  There were only a few pedestrians about. The ones he passed wore clothes with real colour to them, properly dyed rather than dulled by soot and wear. They seemed to wear more cloth overall, layered and fuller, though the quality itself didn’t look dramatically better than what he’d seen elsewhere in the city.

  The buildings themselves shared a common design. Same proportions, same clean lines, each separated by a wide alleyway. The colours varied from one to the next, muted but deliberate. One alley held a parked wagon, its presence making the spacing feel intentional rather than generous.

  Alric followed the row until he found the sign for Moreen and Sons. The lettering was strange again, words rendered in mismatched fonts that pulled his attention in different directions at once. He paused, then dismissed it as a matter of taste he headed toward the door.

  Only then did he notice the glass set into it, clear and carefully fitted. He studied it a moment, it wasn't very clear but it was definitely glass.

  Opening the door and stepping inside, Alric found himself in a space that felt less like a shop and more like a reception hall. The room was wide and uncluttered, with polished wooden floors and high ceilings that allowed sound to travel without echoing. Light filtered in through tall windows, diffused by pale curtains that softened it rather than blocking it, giving everything an even, deliberate brightness.

  There were displays, but not in the way he expected. No crowded shelves, no cluttered counters. Instead, a handful of items were arranged with careful restraint. Bolts of fine cloth rested on angled stands along one wall, partially unrolled to show colour and weave without revealing their full length. Near them, a small selection of finished garments hung from carved wooden frames, not for sale as-is so much as examples of cut, fit, and craftsmanship. Nothing bore prices.

  Opposite that, glass-fronted cases held a sparse assortment of goods: worked metal fittings, engraved clasps, seal rings, and what looked like sample ingots stamped with marks he did not recognise. Each case contained only a few pieces, spaced so that the emptiness around them seemed intentional, as though the air itself were part of the display.

  It dawned on Alric that this was not a place meant for browsing. These were proofs, not stock. Invitations rather than offerings. The real goods, he suspected, were elsewhere entirely, measured in wagons and ledgers rather than shelves.

  A broad counter dominated the centre of the room, positioned so that anyone entering had no choice but to approach it. Behind it stood a single clerk. The man’s eyes moved over Alric with practiced efficiency, lingering on his boots a moment longer than the rest before returning to his face.

  “Welcome to Moreen and Sons,” he said, the words delivered with stiff formality.

  Alric waited, expecting more. Nothing came. No offer of help, no question, just the statement, as though the greeting itself completed the exchange.

  “Uh. Thanks,” Alric said at last. “I need to sell some armor. It’s in my item box,” he added quickly as the clerk’s gaze sharpened with mild curiosity.

  The clerk nodded once and gestured toward a wide table set off to the side. Alric moved to it, familiarity dulling the awkwardness now. He raised a hand and let the armor spill out in a heap, the item box showing its usual indifference to order as each piece clattered into place.

  Without examining the pile, Alric reached out and turned the helmet so it faced away from him.

  The clerk noticed. He gave the armor a single, measured look before speaking.

  “I’ll need to fetch an expert.”

  He disappeared through a door at the back, leaving Alric alone with his thoughts. Alric glanced at the armor, then turned the helmet a little further, as though distance might help.

  He didn’t wait long.

  The expert approached the table with casual indifference, hands clasped behind his back. That indifference didn’t last. As he began arranging the pieces, laying them out with more space and care than the dwarven smith had been able to manage, his movements grew sharper, more animated.

  “You’ll need to get the owner,” the expert said without looking up.

  The clerk nodded and left at once.

  The expert finished setting the armor, then began inspecting each piece in turn. His fingers traced seams, tested straps, weighed sections in his hands. A low whistle escaped him before he caught himself, and he glanced up at Alric with something close to alarm.

  He said nothing more, returning to his work in pointed silence.

  Moments later, a man emerged from the doorway at the back, and the difference was immediate. Where everyone else in the room had dressed to disappear into function, this man appeared to have dressed to be noticed from across a crowded square. Colour clashed against colour in ways that should not have worked, yet somehow did. Deep blues bled into sharp yellows, trimmed with reds so saturated they looked freshly painted. The fabric itself was clearly fine, layered and tailored with intent, but the palette was unapologetic, as though subtlety had been dismissed on principle.

  A black hat sat perched atop his head, wide-brimmed and stiff, its darkness made more striking by what adorned it. Feathers rose from one side in a loose fan, long and narrow, each a different hue, catching the light as he moved. Nestled among them was a single flower, pale and carefully placed, its petals intact and uncrushed, as if replaced daily. The whole arrangement looked less decorative than declarative, a statement made without explanation.

  The man stepped closer to the table, eyes flicking over the armor with professional speed. He paused, leaned in just enough to confirm what he was seeing, and let out a low whistle of his own.

  Then he straightened and turned to Alric, his smile wide, confident, and entirely unselfconscious.

  “Moreen,” he said, as though the name alone were sufficient introduction.

  “Uh… I’m Alric,” he replied, realising a moment too late that he’d leaned back slightly. “I take it you’re interested?”

  Moreen’s smile widened, if anything. “Oh yes,” he said easily. “But let’s put it away for now and discuss this…” He leaned in just enough for the words to drop in volume. “In my office.”

  The expert carefully replaced the piece he had been inspecting, his mouth tightening into a faint scowl as he stepped back. The clerk had already moved aside. Alric raised his hand and felt the familiar tug as the armor vanished piece by piece, leaving the table bare.

  “Oooh,” Moreen murmured, eyes alight. “So fancy. So practical.” He glanced back at Alric, eyebrows wagging shamelessly. “You’re quite sure you don’t want to work for me?”

  Alric realised, a little too late, that this man genuinely intimidated him. “Uh… I’d like to run my own business,” he said, then added quickly, “you know? Haha,” the laugh coming out thinner than intended.

  Moreen clicked his tongue, a sound of mild, theatrical annoyance. “Oh, I know that feeling well.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Still. Office.”

  He clapped his hands once as he turned toward a door, then paused, glancing back at Alric. He clapped again, slower this time. His shoulders slumped.

  “Ergh,” he sighed. “Follow me.”

  Alric did. Left. Up a short flight of stairs. Down a narrow passage. Left again. Then another left. A right. A door. As it closed behind them, Alric found himself wondering if the building was deliberately arranged this way or if it simply enjoyed confusing people.

  The office was unexpectedly tasteful. Two couches faced one another across a small table, the space arranged with quiet confidence rather than display. It was the sort of room his mother would have approved of, the kind where wealth didn’t announce itself, it murmured.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Moreen took a seat on the couch positioned before the only window. Alric noticed immediately that the glass was dirty on the outside, the grime softening the view of the docks and the slow brown river beyond.

  “So,” Moreen said, gesturing toward the couch opposite him, “let’s talk that shiny armor of yours.”

  Alric moved to sit, the cushions were a lie, this was just wood with cloth over it, his posture stiff he say upright. Moreen leaned back comfortably.

  “Yes… I’d very much like that armor,” Moreen continued, hands moving as he spoke, expressive and precise. “At the right price, of course.” He clasped his fingers together. “But there are so many problems.” He pressed his palms briefly to his cheeks and sighed, exaggerated and theatrical. “Let’s start with price. Fifteen gold.”

  Alric perked up despite himself. The dwarf had said twenty. This, at least, felt familiar. Negotiation. “It’s rare,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “Only one set like it. Twenty.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “Fifteen gold,” Moreen repeated, his face now entirely blank.

  The moment stretched just long enough for Alric to understand. He had no leverage. The dwarf had been clear. This was the only place in the city that would touch armor like that.

  “Uh… alright,” Alric said at last, the air going out of him. “Fifteen gold, then.”

  “Great! That’s settled, then.” Moreen beamed, clapping his hands together.

  “But I can’t.”

  The smile vanished, replaced by an exaggerated frown. Alric felt like he’d missed a step and fallen down a stair that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  “We’re a wholesaler,” Moreen continued, his tone suddenly matter-of-fact. “We only buy from and sell to established businesses and nobles.” His eyes flicked over Alric, slow and assessing, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

  Alric shook his head.

  “So,” Moreen said lightly, spreading his hands, “unless you’re a member of the merchants’ guild… we simply can’t.” He sighed, long and theatrical. “And it’s so expensive to join.”

  The words landed gently. The implication did not.

  “Uh… what does it cost to join the merchants’ guild?” Alric asked, suddenly aware of how small he felt, like a mouse being studied by something that hadn’t decided whether to eat it yet.

  “Oh?” Moreen said, glancing down at his nails as if inspecting them. “Did I say expensive? It’s one gold coin.”

  Alric blinked. “Uh… right. I don’t have a gold coin.”

  Moreen’s head snapped up. “Oh no,” he said brightly, sitting upright. “That simply won’t do.” He waved a hand as though brushing the problem aside. “But that’s easily solved. We’ll sponsor you.”

  Alric stared.

  “We’ll pay the guild fee for you,” Moreen continued, smiling broadly. “See how nice I am?”

  The smile held. The offer did not feel kind.

  Alric swallowed, then straightened slightly. This, he realised, was the moment to stop drifting. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, returning the smile carefully. “I’ll need written assurances. Both for the sponsorship and the purchase.”

  For a heartbeat, Moreen’s expression sharpened into something distinctly predatory. Then he clicked his tongue and sighed. “Where’s the trust gone?” he asked, the complaint delivered with a mock-pained smile. “Still,” he added, already rising to his feet, “I suppose that’s reasonable enough.”

  He crossed the room to a nearby shelf and returned with a small tray, setting it between them. Alric leaned forward to inspect it: a glass bottle of ink, a quill, a stub of candle burning steadily over what looked suspiciously like a small jug of milk, and a heavy metal stamp resting beside them. Moreen pulled two sheets of paper toward himself.

  Paper? Alric thought, momentarily distracted. This place figured out paper before beer? What kind of world am I in?

  Moreen dipped the quill and wrote quickly, confidently, the words flowing without hesitation. When he finished each page, he dripped molten wax onto the paper and pressed the stamp into it, the seal forming with a soft, final sound. He leaned back at last, satisfied, leaving the documents between them.

  The papers sat there, neat and official, and far more tempting than they had any right to be.

  “Don’t suppose you’d leave the armor with us, now that you have these?” Moreen asked, gesturing lightly toward the documents.

  Alric shook his head.

  Moreen clicked his tongue again. “A pity,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Still, once you’ve got your membership sorted, I’ll be waiting.” He waggled his eyebrows once more. “Oh! And the guild’s the white building opposite,” he added with a wink.

  Before anything else could be said, Moreen stood and gathered the papers, pushing them neatly toward Alric. He took them.

  “Oooh,” Moreen said suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Do your trick again. With the item box.”

  Alric blinked, then raised his hand and felt the documents become a part of him uncomfortably. Moreen clapped in exaggerated delight. “Oh, I’ll never get tired of that,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll see you out.”

  They walked back through the corridors, Alric feeling far more drained than when he’d entered. At the door, as Alric stepped outside, Moreen’s voice followed him, bright and buoyant.

  “Toodles!”

  Alric lifted a hand in return, then let it fall as the door closed behind him.

  Opposite, the white building Moreen had indicated dominated the street. It was broader than its neighbours, its fa?ade unbroken by colour or ornament, the stone pale and scrubbed to uniformity. Alric crossed to it, his steps heavier than they had any right to be, a dull fatigue settling into his shoulders.

  Inside, the space opened abruptly. The ceiling was high, the air cool, and sound carried in a way that made even quiet conversation feel exposed. To the right, a queue of people stretched along a roped boundary, each person facing forward with the resigned stillness of those prepared to wait. Some clutched folders or wrapped bundles, others held nothing at all, hands folded or fidgeting in small, habitual motions.

  To the left sat a long desk of pale wood. Behind it, a single receptionist occupied a tall-backed chair, her posture straight, her expression neutral. The desk was conspicuously clear, save for a small stack of forms and a tray holding charcoal sticks. No one stood before her.

  Alric hesitated, then turned left and approached the receptionist. She looked to be in her mid twenties, her hair a lighter shade than most he’d seen so far, her expression already set into a practiced, professional smile. He noticed, not without surprise, that she was cute, and immediately felt foolish for thinking about it at all.

  “Welcome to the Merchants’ Guild!” she said, the phrase delivered with the same polished cadence he’d heard across the street. Once again, it felt oddly unfinished.

  “Uh, hi,” Alric said. “I want to sign up. Is this the right desk?”

  She nodded and reached for a form from the neat stack beside her, turning it around and sliding it toward him. A quill and inkpot followed.

  “Uh…” Alric trailed off, staring at the quill.

  Her eyes flicked to his hesitation. Without comment, she withdrew the quill and replaced it with a short stick of charcoal.

  Alric looked down at the form.

  The text was worse than the signage outside. Far worse. Letters stretched and compressed until words barely resembled themselves. NAME sprawled across the page, elongated to the point of near illegibility. He frowned, trying to reconcile what he could read with what he understood, and began to fill it in, uneasy from the very first mark he made.

  Name: Alric

  Trade or function: Trade

  He hesitated, then left the rest blank.

  Affiliation:

  Place of operation:

  Authority:

  Declaration of responsibility:

  Date of petition:

  Staring at the empty spaces, Alric felt a sudden, acute sense of inadequacy. Not ignorance exactly, but a failure to qualify for questions he couldn’t properly see.

  He looked up.

  The receptionist was watching the form now, her professional smile gone, replaced by a narrow, thoughtful frown.

  “I can’t read that,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Alric passed the paper over. She studied his writing closely, tilting it slightly, then glanced up at him.

  “What language is this?” she asked.

  “Uh… sorry,” Alric said. “I can’t write in any others.”

  She blinked once, then shook her head. Without comment, she handed the form back and retrieved a fresh one from the stack, placing it neatly in front of him.

  “Let’s try again,” she said, lifting the quill.

  “Name, designation, house, lineage?” she asked.

  “Alric,” he replied automatically, then paused. He glanced back at the form. His copy showed only NAME, the word stretched across the page in warped, elongated letters. Nothing else. He blinked, trying to reconcile the difference.

  “Trade or function?” she continued, pen poised.

  “Trade.”

  She nodded, writing briskly. “That’s the usual,” she said mildly. “Otherwise you’d be registering with the artisans’ guild.” She moved on without waiting. “Affiliation?”

  “I’m not sure what that’s asking,” Alric admitted. “Other guilds?”

  She shook her head. “Noble houses.”

  He shook his own. She wrote something anyway.

  The questions continued. Place of operation. Authority. Responsibility. Each time he hesitated or answered with uncertainty, she recorded something with calm efficiency. Alric felt increasingly like an impostor, watching his own legitimacy being assembled out of assumptions he hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t contest.

  “Well,” she said at last, glancing over the page, “without a declaration of responsibility, we won’t be able to extend any lines of credit.” Her tone remained polite, almost apologetic. She filled in the date at the bottom of the form.

  Alric tried to read it. On his copy, the ink blurred into a dark smear that refused to resolve into meaning.

  “All that’s left is the fee,” she said, looking up with a professional smile. “Do you have it?”

  He did. Carefully, beneath the counter, he retrieved the promissory note from his item box and passed it to her. She scanned it quickly, nodded once, and set it aside.

  “Alright,” she said. “You’ll be able to collect your guild token in two days.” She looked back up at him. “Any questions?”

  “Uh—yes,” Alric said quickly. “Several. What are the rules, exactly? Who can sell to whom? Some places can only trade with certain—”

  She tilted her head, the smile softening into something genuinely puzzled.

  “Those details,” she said gently, “are explained once membership is active.”

  Alric swallowed.

  “There is another process,” she continued, “where we discuss the kind of business you intend to become.” She paused briefly. “Those rules mostly apply to larger trading houses.”

  Alric nodded, though his mind was already turning it over. He wasn’t sure whether that was meant to protect smaller ventures or simply because larger ones were easier to police. He suspected the latter.

  “Uh… I’d like to buy some paper,” he said.

  Her smile returned at once. “Certainly. Pages are a small copper each. If you buy ten, I’ll include a charcoal stick free of charge.” She hesitated just long enough to make it deliberate. “Receipts cost extra.”

  He shook his head and passed over a large copper. She counted out the sheets, added a thin stick of charcoal, and slid them neatly across the desk.

  Then she simply smiled at him.

  The silence stretched, polite but unmistakable. After a moment, she asked, “Anything else?”

  “Uh. No. Thank you,” Alric said, standing.

  She said nothing further.

  That struck him as odd. No farewell. No dismissal. Just the smile, already resetting. For a fleeting, unwelcome moment, he wondered if it was him. Perhaps he was uglier than he remembered.

  The thought followed him as he turned away, a cold thread of dread winding tighter when he remembered the god’s… questionable aesthetic tastes. He realised, with a sudden urgency, that he still hadn’t seen his own reflection since arriving in this world.

  Alric reached for the door and pushed it open, more eager to leave than he cared to examine.