The Shopkeeper's Tale

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The shop stood shrouded in silence, its dark wooden beams creaking softly in the frosty dawn. Cliff Ermes stared out the fogged window, watching as the first weak rays of sunlight struggled to penetrate the low-hanging, snow-laden clouds that seemed perpetually draped over Reuben’s Rise. The landscape outside his window was a charming, quiet town near the foot of the mountain, and the mountain itself was ice and rock, broken only by the occasional scraggly pine tree or jagged outcropping of stone, with many entrances leading to its depths. It became progressively more dangerous as adventurers went deeper, risking their lives for rarer rewards.

Cliff rolled his eyes. He closed the curtains and shrugged. Such was the life of their profit-centered realm. He looked inside his new home, hungry to be filled with merchandise. For a merchant’s house is always his shop.

Day one of his new venture.

His breath left ghostly tendrils on the glass, dissipating slowly as he leaned back against the counter and let out a slow sigh. The shop felt cavernous. Rows of bare wooden shelves lined the walls, waiting to be stocked. There was a pervasive chill in the air, despite the fire burning low in the hearth at the back of the room. Cliff pulled his woolen coat tighter around him and glanced up at the clock that ticked quietly on the wall. It was still early, but the day ahead seemed endless already.

He cast his gaze around the unnamed shop, taking in the bare bones of what he hoped would one day be a bustling mercantile hub. The building itself was sturdy and well-constructed, its timber walls solid and its roof thickly thatched to keep out the biting cold of the mountain winds. It was a good space—spacious, with high ceilings and wide windows that let in plenty of light. The counter, a polished slab of pinewood, was positioned strategically at the center of the room, allowing him to oversee the entire shop from his perch behind it.

To his left, a series of narrow shelves rose up from the floor to the ceiling, each one divided into neat compartments. These were meant to hold the various potions and elixirs he intended to stock—remedies for frostbite and illness, vials of stamina and strength for the hardy mountain folk, and perhaps a few more exotic concoctions for any adventurers who might pass through. At present, only a few dusty bottles occupied the shelves, their contents glowing faintly in the dim light.

The right side of the shop was designated for weapons and armor. Sturdy wooden racks stood empty, their pegs and hooks waiting for swords, axes, and shields. A heavy iron stand, meant for displaying a full suit of plate armor, loomed near the corner like a ghost of potential. And though Cliff had long ago since abandoned his ideals when he realized how pointless, how corrupt, how greedy the realm was back in university, his fingers still itched to see it filled, to hear the clink of metal as he arranged rows of gleaming weapons.

A smaller section near the door housed glass cases, each with a velvet-lined interior designed to showcase enchanted trinkets and curios. Here, he would display enchanted rings, amulets, and protective charms. He pictured them sparkling under the glow of the lanterns overhead, drawing in curious customers with their whispered promises of luck, strength, or protection.

But for now, the cases were empty, the shelves barren, and the racks void of steel.

Cliff shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the wooden floorboards. The hollow sound echoed through the stillness. He ran a hand through his tousled chestnut hair and tried to shake off the uneasy feeling coiling in his chest. Was this what he’d worked so hard for? All those years at the university, striving to be the best, to earn his gold-level merchant certification, only to end up in a shop that felt more like a tomb than a thriving business.

He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the day he’d told his mentor, Professor Gerold Fenwick, about his decision to open a shop here in Reuben’s Rise.

“Reuben’s Rise?” Fenwick had repeated, arching a grizzled eyebrow as if Cliff had suggested setting up shop on the peak of a volcano. “That place is barely on the map, Cliff. What on earth do you think you’ll gain by opening a store there?”

“It’s a challenge,” Cliff had replied, keeping his tone steady, though he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Though, what Cliff had wanted was a space away from the hustle and bustle and daily grind. He added more to the lie. “It’s exactly the kind of place that needs commerce. There’s potential there. I want to be the one to unlock it.”

“Potential?” Fenwick had scoffed. “There’s no demand. Few hunters, no guild headquarters, not much adventurers passing through. You’re talking about building a market from the ground up, in a place where people don’t even know they need what you’re selling.”

“That’s why I’m going there,” Cliff had insisted. “To create demand, to establish something new.”

The professor had shaken his head, his expression a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. “Idealism is good, Cliff, but don’t let it blind you to reality. You’re a gold-level merchant. You have the skills to start anywhere—anywhere. The capital city, a major trade route, even a prosperous village with a steady flow of customers. Why bury yourself in the mountains?”

Because this world makes me sick, Cliff thought. Instead, he said, “Because that’s what everyone else does. They go where the money already is. I want to go where I can make a difference.”

Fenwick had sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But don’t lose yourself trying to prove a point.”

With those words still ringing in his ears, Cliff had signed the papers, sealing his fate in this forsaken outpost. And now, standing alone in his shop, he knew it was the right choice. Now all he had to do was live out his days doing the bare minimum, and escape to another less-known land when his father demanded for him to produce an heir to their family’s noble merchant rank.

He glanced down at his hands, the calluses from years of training with ledgers and inventory management still rough against his palms.

Cliff sighed. He straightened and turned toward the back of the shop, where a narrow staircase led up to the loft that served as his living quarters. The steps creaked softly underfoot as he ascended, and he emerged into a small, cluttered space that was a far cry from the spaciousness of the shop below. The loft had a low, slanted ceiling, with exposed wooden beams that seemed to press down on the room, making it feel even smaller.

A single narrow window let in a sliver of gray light, illuminating the rough-hewn furniture scattered haphazardly around the room. A bed, its blankets neatly folded, occupied one corner, and a battered armchair sat beside a cast-iron stove that radiated a feeble warmth. Pipes snaked along the walls and ceiling, their metal surfaces gleaming faintly. The stove was connected to a series of hot water pipes—one of the few luxuries Cliff had allowed himself. The warmth they provided was sparse, but it kept the bitter cold of the mountain nights at bay.

Beside the bed, a small wardrobe held his clothes, most of them thrifted or secondhand items he’d gathered over the years. A few well-tailored coats and trousers hung there, reminders of his time at the university, but the rest were plain, practical garments suitable for the harsh mountain climate.

A stack of books leaned precariously against the wall; a mix of treatises on alchemy, journals on magical theory, and ledgers filled with the meticulous details of running a business. Cliff picked up one of the journals and thumbed through it absently, his eyes skimming over the familiar diagrams and notes. These books had been his companions during the long nights of study, the long hours of preparation. They were filled with dreams and plans, strategies and contingencies.

Now all he felt was emptiness.

He set the journal down and returned to the main floor of the shop, determined to keep himself busy. There was still work to be done: crates to be unpacked, shelves to be dusted, and inventory to be recorded. He moved mechanically, his mind wandering as he arranged the first shipment of wares he’d received; a small selection of potions, a few basic weapons, and some enchanted trinkets.

The potions were neatly lined up on the leftmost shelves, their glass vials glimmering softly in the dim light. Red for health, blue for mana, green for stamina, each one labeled with his own carefully penned script. The weapons—short swords, daggers, and a few sturdy bows—were arranged on the right, their polished metal surfaces reflecting the faint glow of the lanterns overhead.

Cliff stepped back, surveying his work. It looked… decent. A start. But the empty shelves beyond mocked him, a stark reminder of how much farther he had to go.

Another sigh escaped his lips. He moved to the front of the shop and gazed out the window again. The street outside was still empty, save for a few townsfolk trudging through the snow, their heads down against the biting wind. There was no sign of adventurers or mercenaries, no hint of the bustling trade he’d envisioned.

Good.

Cliff turned around. He would build this shop, yes, to avoid suspicion. He would fill these shelves, and bring commerce to this desolate place. But only just enough to make ends meet.