CHAPTER 6 — “Market Day” #3
She pets him with exaggerated care, running her small fingers through his fur, and Johnson’s ear gradually relaxes despite his best efforts. His eyes drift half-closed.
This means nothing, he says. I’m merely tolerating this for strategic reasons.
“Of course.”
Children are useful. They grow up. They remember kindnesses. This is an investment in future loyalty.
“Absolutely.”
Stop smirking.
“I’m not smirking.”
Your face is doing the thing. I can feel it.
Mira is humming now, some tuneless melody that children seem to generate spontaneously. She’s completely absorbed in her task, petting Johnson like he’s the most precious thing in the world.
And Johnson—despite his protests, despite his dignity, despite everything—is letting her.
One word about this to anyone, he says, and I’ll eat your pillow.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
It better be.
The market winds down as the afternoon fades.
I pack up my remaining merchandise—not much left, which is a good sign—and count my earnings. Three silver, forty-seven copper. Not a fortune, but more than I started with, and more importantly, I’ve made connections. People know my face now, know my products. They’ll come back.
Mira left an hour ago, called away by the same worried mother who’s been watching our interactions with poorly concealed suspicion.
I don’t blame her. A strange man who clears dungeons and sells potions, befriending her orphaned daughter?
That’s exactly the kind of situation a good parent should be suspicious of.
I’ll have to prove myself. Slowly. Over time.
You’re thinking about the child again, Johnson observes as we walk back toward the farm.
“She reminds me of someone.”
Who?
The question catches me off guard. I don’t usually talk about my past—the real past, from before. But Johnson has proven himself trustworthy, or at least invested in my survival, which is close enough.
“My daughter,” I say quietly. “Before. She was… she would have been about Mira’s age when I died.”
Silence.
You had a daughter.
“Had. Past tense.” I keep walking, keeping my eyes on the road. “She wasn’t mine by blood—Persephone and I couldn’t have children, some magical compatibility issue they never fully explained. But we adopted her. A war orphan. She was three when we took her in, seven when I…”
When I died.
When Persephone helped kill me.
What happened to her? To the daughter I raised, the child I loved? Did Persephone keep her? Did she grow up believing the lie, believing that her father was a hero and not a victim?
Does she know the truth?
Is she even alive?
I’m sorry, Johnson says, and for once there’s no sarcasm in his voice. Just quiet acknowledgment of something painful.
“It was two hundred years ago.”
Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. Trust me—I’ve been grieving for longer than that.
I look at him—at this strange, impossible creature who chose to follow me for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
“What are you grieving?”
Everything. Nothing. The world I came from. The person I used to be. His ears twitch. We’re not so different, you and I. Both of us lost. Both of us trying to rebuild something from the ruins.
“What do you want to rebuild?”
I haven’t decided yet. But I’ll know it when I find it.
We walk in silence after that, the setting sun painting long shadows across the road, and I think about daughters and grief and the things we carry even when we want to let go.
Mariella is waiting on the porch when we arrive.
She’s not alone.
There’s a man with her—late thirties, well-dressed by village standards, with the kind of oily smile that immediately puts me on edge. He’s standing too close to her, leaning in, and her body language is all wrong. Shoulders tense. Hands clasped tight. Face carefully neutral.
I recognize that neutrality. It’s the kind you wear when you can’t afford to show fear.
Trouble, Johnson says unnecessarily.
“I see it.”
I approach with deliberate casualness, adjusting my satchel like I don’t have a care in the world.
“Mariella. Didn’t expect visitors.”
She looks up, and there’s relief in her eyes—quickly hidden, but I see it.
“Velthar. This is Aldric. He’s… a traveler. Passing through.”
“Merchant, actually.” Aldric’s smile widens, showing too many teeth. “Heard there’s a new face around here causing quite a stir. Clearing dungeons, selling potions, making friends. I thought I’d introduce myself.”
He’s lying, Johnson says flatly. Not a merchant. Look at his hands—no calluses. Look at his boots—military issue, not civilian. Look at his eyes—he’s assessing you like a threat.
I look. Johnson’s right, as usual.
My [Arcane Sight] activates on instinct, and I catch something I shouldn’t be able to see at my level — a faint shimmer around Aldric’s left wrist. Concealed enchantment. Communication device, maybe. Or a weapon.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ ARCANE SIGHT ---PASSIVE DETECTION │ ├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ Subject: "Aldric" (claimed identity) │ │ │ │ Concealed Items Detected:│ │ --- Wrist enchantment (left arm, hidden) │ │ Type: Communicationcrystal (military) │ │ --- Boot compartment (right foot) │ │ Type:Unknown (shielded) │ │ --- Chest amulet (beneath clothing) │ │ Type:Detection ward (ACTIVE --- scanning) │ │ │ │ WARNING: Subject's amuletis actively scanning │ │ ambient mana levels.
Your presence may have │ │already been flagged.
│ │ │ │ Threat Assessment: HIGH │ │Recommendation: Do not reveal abilities.
│ │ │ │ "He's scanning youwhile you're scanning him.
│ │ This is the world's mostpassive-aggressive │ │ staring contest." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Great. His amulet’s been scanning since he got here. Which means whatever mana signature I’m putting out, he’s already recorded it. Nothing I can do about that now without revealing that I noticed, which would be worse.
“Nice to meet you, Aldric.” I keep my voice pleasant. “What brings a merchant to Millbrook? Not exactly a thriving trade hub.”
“Opportunity, friend. There’s always opportunity if you know where to look.” He glances at the dungeon entrance, just visible behind the cottage. “I hear there’s a dungeon here. Sealed for two centuries. But recently… things have been changing.”
The cold feeling in my stomach gets colder.
“Things?”
“The mana density in this area has tripled in the past month. Imperial sensors picked it up. The Guild started asking questions.” He’s still smiling, but there’s something hard underneath. “When a sealed dungeon starts leaking power, it usually means the seal is breaking. And when the seal breaks…”
“Monsters,” Mariella says quietly. “More than usual.”
“Among other things.” Aldric’s eyes find mine, and for a moment the mask slips—just a flicker, just long enough to see the predator underneath.
“The Empire likes to keep track of unregistered dungeons. Especially ones that are waking up. It would be a shame if someone was exploiting one without proper authorization.”
He’s threatening you, Johnson says. Subtly, but he’s threatening you.
I know.
“I appreciate the information,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Is there something specific you need, Aldric? Or just passing along friendly warnings?”
“Just passing through, like I said. But I’m sure I’ll be back.” He tips an imaginary hat at Mariella—who doesn’t respond—and starts walking toward the road. “Nice meeting you, Velthar. We’ll talk again soon.”
I watch him go until he disappears around the bend.
Then I turn to Mariella.
“What did he really want?”
She’s shaking. Trying to hide it, but shaking.
“He was asking about you. About me. About where we came from, why we’re here.” She wraps her arms around herself. “He knew things, Velthar. Things he shouldn’t know. About the dungeon. About the seal. About…”
She trails off, but I can fill in the gaps.
About her. About who she really is.
Anton’s network, Johnson says grimly. It has to be. That man wasn’t a merchant—he was a scout. Reconnaissance.
“They’re looking for something,” I say quietly. “Or someone.”
Mariella’s eyes meet mine, and I see the fear there—not of me, but of what’s coming.
“He mentioned the Valdris family,” she whispers. “In passing, like it was nothing. Asked if I’d ever been to the capital, if I’d ever met any of the nobility.”
Ice in my veins.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I played dumb. But he knew, Velthar. I could see it in his face—he knew something was wrong.”
We have company coming, Johnson says. Sooner than expected. The Empire’s interested, and when the Empire gets interested, things tend to get complicated.
Complicated.
That’s one word for it.
I look at Mariella—at this woman who came out of nowhere, who’s been hiding from the same people I’m hiding from, who’s somehow become important to me in ways I didn’t plan.
“We need to talk,” I say. “Really talk. About who you are. About who I am. About what’s coming.”
She nods slowly. “I know.”
“Tonight. After dinner. Everything on the table.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself. “Okay. Tonight.”
I turn to look at the dungeon entrance, at the sealed darkness waiting below.
The Empire is watching. Anton’s scouts are sniffing around. The clock that I knew was ticking has just gotten louder.
I need to move faster. Need to get stronger. Need to reach Floor 10 before they figure out what’s happening.
Before they figure out who I really am.
Well, Johnson says, this just got interesting.
“That’s one word for it.”
Would you prefer ‘terrifying’?
“Honestly? Yes.”
Terrifying it is, then. He hops onto my shoulder, settling into his usual perch. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not boring. Boring people don’t survive situations like this.
“That’s comforting.”
I try.
We stand there as the sun sets, watching the road where Aldric disappeared, and I think about war—not the one I fought before, but the one that’s coming.
The one I’m going to win.