Chapter 024: The New And The Old
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{TURDAS, SOLYRA 26, 999 – 09:26}
{LUCIAN GILFORD}
I woke to the sound of hammering—not in my head, thankfully, but somewhere beneath the floorboards. The kind of steady, confident strikes that only a professional carpenter could manage before breakfast. My phone glowed from its place atop the nightstand, the screen announcing it was twenty-six minutes past nine and daring me to pretend I'd slept any later than I should have.
It wasn't a hangover. Just fatigue—the kind that settled in your bones after too much champagne, too many conversations, and maybe one kiss too many at a city gate. My shoulders ached, my mouth was dry, and the faint, sharp scent of sawdust drifted through the floorboards like a promise that I wouldn't get another minute of rest.
I hauled myself upright, stretched until my spine popped, and blinked the bleariness out of my eyes. The little room above the shop was cluttered with odds and ends I hadn't found a place for—folded blankets, last night's coat slung over a chair, the leftover nerves of a man who still wasn't sure he belonged here, but had to pretend he did.
A second hammer joined the first, then the scrape of wood on stone, and the muffled sound of Toma's crew swapping morning greetings in the builder's dialect I'd barely started to understand. I found clean clothes—work jeans, a shirt that might have passed for business casual back home but counted as "respectable merchant" here—and picked my way downstairs.
The air thickened as I descended. Sawdust in every beam of sunlight, men moving with practiced ease, laying new counters, measuring boards against the wall, voices low and focused. The shop's bones were changing, the whole place taking on weight and shape—an actual storefront, not just a borrowed space.
I lingered by the last few steps, rubbing my face, trying to summon the energy for what was already a long day. One of the carpenters nodded to me, lifting a hand in greeting before ducking back to his work. The world of hammers and saws didn't care much for sleep schedules.
Somewhere between the first whiff of coffee and the second promise of breakfast, I decided that fatigue could wait. The shop wasn't going to renovate itself, and I had a business to run—or at least to pretend I knew how to run.
I cleared my throat, managed something that might pass for a good morning.
I padded barefoot across the gritty floor, pausing by the back door to pull on my boots. My phone flashed a quiet suggestion for breakfast, but the moment I opened the food court tab, it felt like cheating. I ordered two rotisserie chickens, a case of Gatorade—red and blue, just in case—and let the system do its work.
The smell hit first. Warm, rich, savory—the kind of aroma that stuck to the walls. The order popped into being in the little delivery alcove near the stairs, chickens perfectly golden in their plastic domes, bottles of Gatorade sweating with condensation. I slid the drinks into a battered washtub, carried everything out to where the carpenters had spread their measuring tapes, and set the lot on a fresh plank balanced between two old crates.
"Breakfast break," I called, trying not to sound too much like a tourist. A few heads turned, eyes lingering on the strange feast. They hesitated for a heartbeat—habit or suspicion, I couldn't tell—then one of the older men grinned, wiped his hands on his apron, and gestured the others over.
The crew gathered around, eyeing the chickens like they were festival prizes. I popped the lids and handed out a stack of napkins, tossing in a few words of thanks in my mangled Orario dialect. Toma's right-hand man clapped me on the shoulder, then immediately tore into a drumstick, grease running down his fingers.
The Gatorade was a harder sell. The first carpenter eyed the red bottle as though it might be poison, but after a tentative sip, his eyebrows shot up and he barked something approving to his partner. Soon enough, the bottles passed from hand to hand, disappearing faster than I'd expected.
I left them to it, slipping behind the counter and leaning against the edge where the new trim was being measured for fit. Sawdust curled around my boots. The floor vibrated with the thump and rhythm of hammers and laughter as the crew joked in their thick, rapid-fire patois.
For once, I didn't feel the need to do anything except watch—my shop, my roof, my future built with every swing and saw. I let the fatigue ride my shoulders and just breathed, listening to the sound of work and the scent of progress baking into the morning air.
The crew tucked in around the makeshift table, tearing at the chickens and swapping bites for banter, already arguing over who'd found the best piece. I sipped my own bottle of Gatorade, the artificial fruit sharp on my tongue, and let the day unfold without hurry. Sunlight cut through the doorway in a golden wedge, the sound of work blending with the low hum of a city already awake.
The bell over the shop door gave a single, cheery ring. I glanced up as Hestia slipped in, looking entirely too energetic for the hour. Her white dress was a little wrinkled, hair slightly tousled, but she moved with the confidence of someone who'd been through more mornings than she cared to admit.
She scanned the chaos of half-finished shelves and builder's debris before finding me behind the counter, boots propped on the lowest shelf, arms folded. "You really weren't kidding about renovations," she said, weaving around a sawhorse and eyeing the breakfast spread. One of Toma's men, mouth full, offered a polite nod; another grunted a greeting in the local tongue.
I straightened, tossing the empty bottle in the trash. "Morning. Looking for a job, or just curious if I survived the night?"
Hestia rolled her eyes, but I caught the faint smile hiding in the curve of her lips. "About that job offer. Was it real, or just a way to rescue me from the others' stares?"
"Absolutely real," I said, deadpan. "If you're still interested, the job's yours—inventory, shopkeeping, the occasional delivery. Not glamorous, but I pay on time and the food is better than the street stalls."
She folded her arms, considering me with that mix of skepticism and curiosity that seemed to be her default state. "You sure you want a goddess running your counter?"
I gave the room a once-over. Sawdust, hammers, two men arguing about whether red or blue Gatorade was "magic." "I think I can handle it. Besides, you're the only applicant who hasn't asked about hazard pay yet."
Hestia's laughter was bright and genuine, bouncing off the rafters and earning a few sideways looks from the crew. "Alright. I'll try it your way—for now. But I want it in writing. And—" she lowered her voice, glancing around conspiratorially, "does the job come with breakfast?"
I grabbed the last untouched chicken leg and held it out, grinning. "First perk of the job. Welcome aboard."
Hestia took the drumstick, her fingers curling around it with more gratitude than she probably meant to show. I dusted my hands off on my jeans. "I'll write up a contract later," I said. "For now, eat. If you brought a book, you're welcome to read at the counter until someone comes in." Toma's crew was already diving back into their work, the scrape and thud of progress reclaiming the room.
She glanced at the battered novel tucked beneath her arm, the cover soft from use. For a heartbeat, she just looked at me, uncertain, and then, in a rush, "Are you sure you don't want to join my familia? I—well, I'd take care of you, I promise. There's always room for one more. Even just one."
I leaned on the counter, careful not to knock over a measuring tape. "I appreciate it," I said, and meant it. "But I don't plan on joining any familia. I'm just a merchant. That's enough for me right now."
She looked down at the drumstick, nodding once, as if bracing herself against disappointment. "You could do worse," she murmured, half to herself.
"Maybe. But this is the right spot for me." I tried to make it sound easy—like it wasn't a choice I turned over in my mind almost every night. "Besides, someone's got to keep an eye on this place."
She smiled, but it was smaller than before, the kind that said she understood but didn't like it. I didn't offer anything else, just let the moment be. The morning crowd outside was starting to wake the street, the first footsteps passing by the door, voices carrying in on the cool air.
She set her book on the counter, glancing around at the half-empty shelves and the marked boxes stacked against the far wall. "So… what do I do if we run out of something?" she asked, her voice just above the low hum of hammers and saws.
I tapped the edge of the counter, thinking through the day's plan. "I've got an order to place later. If you notice anything running low, just write it down—leave me a list or let me know before I head out this afternoon. I'll make sure anything that needs restocked comes in with the new items tomorrow."
She nodded, that serious, responsible look settling over her face. "Alright. I can do that. Inventory and lists. I'll make you proud."
"High standards for the first day," I said, fighting a smile.
She shot me a mock glare, then busied herself with her book and the drumstick, already acting like she'd always belonged behind that counter. Out in the street, a vendor was hawking something fried and sweet, the scent curling in with the next breeze as the city moved around us.
I left Hestia to her morning routine, the sound of her flipping through pages soon blending with the familiar noise of construction. Upstairs, the little room was a patchwork of sunbeams and dust motes, still too bare, still too much like a work-in-progress—just like everything else in my life.
I pulled out my phone, flicking through the catalog with the careful focus of someone making the most of hard-earned money. New curtains went into the cart first, something thick enough to actually block the early light and give the room a sense of privacy. A bed came next—a real one, not the warped, creaky thing that had been left behind by the last tenant. I left the nightstand; it was battered, sure, but it did its job and still had a story or two in its scars.
Scrolling past the usual "luxury" bundles, I paused on the Goal Zero Yeti 700 and the Boulder 100 solar panel combo. I added them both with a little satisfaction—reliable power. Maybe a bit of modern comfort in a city that still thought candles were cutting-edge.
After a moment's thought, I tossed in a cheap alarm clock. Nostalgia, mostly—there was something about the red glow of plastic numbers, the promise of a new morning you could control with a single button. Last, I added a Goal Zero Skylight area light system. Enough to turn the cramped little room into an actual living space, even after the sun went down.
Downstairs, the clatter of hammers faded for a moment, and the smell of sawdust rose through the floorboards as the city pressed on.
I scrolled through the app, the cart already growing unwieldy. The basics for myself—curtains, a proper bed, solar generator, area lights, that clock for the bedside—ticked over to a neat 106,500Ʌ̶. Necessary, not flashy, and overdue.
But with the renovations coming along, the store needed restocking and some crowd-pleasers. I added five more cases of bottled water—practically required at this point. Spices in bulk: black pepper, cumin, cinnamon, chili flakes, and that oversized jar of garlic powder that had no business existing. Tea—both English breakfast and a fancy green. And coffee—two cases of those Starbucks Frappuccino glass bottles, the kind you'd find in a modern city cooler, along with a rack of flavor syrups to put beside the tea. It'd make the store look like a grocery outlet, and the adventurers could argue over which bottle was best. Monster Energy, just to see who was brave or foolish enough to try one; if nothing else, Finn might need it after the next Loki all-nighter.
A few "import luxuries" for the brave or the wealthy: dark chocolate in ten-bar bricks, mixed nuts by the kilo, dried cranberries, a crate of beef jerky, jars of peanut butter, salted caramel popcorn in those ridiculous oversized tins, boxes of protein bars and breakfast pastries, and two slabs of shelf-stable cheddar.
The numbers stacked up, the app tallying as I shopped. By the time I was finished filling out the store's needs—and a few of my own minor comforts—the grand total hit right at 500,000Ʌ̶. All things considered, it was a good mix: necessities, crowd-pleasers, a couple of wildcards, and more than enough to keep the new shelves stocked once the construction dust finally settled.
I saved the cart, backing out without placing the order just yet.
A footstep creaked on the stairs out front, quick and familiar, followed by the low murmur of voices from the entryway—Rose's, unmistakable, with that crisp, clear edge that always made the builders straighten up and look busy.
I fumbled my phone back into my pocket and barely managed to get my shirt untwisted before I all but jogged for the staircase, only catching myself on the banister at the last second. Two weeks of living in this place and I still moved like a tourist when she walked in.
At the bottom, sawdust clung to my boots and my pulse felt a little too quick for the hour. Toma's crew parted automatically, all eyes on the red-haired guild inspector. Rose stood by the new counter, paperwork in hand, hair pinned up in that almost-formal way that made her look like she belonged in every room she entered. She looked up as I reached the last step—caught me, breathless and a little off-balance—and her mouth quirked, not quite a smile but close.
I pretended I'd meant to arrive that fast. "Morning. You, uh—here to check on the renovations, or just making sure I'm still vertical?"
Rose arched an eyebrow, giving the shelves and the busy carpenters a once-over. "I thought you were only doing night work. Did something change?"
I shook my head, grinning as I leaned back on the counter. "Nope. I'm just paying for two crews now—day shift and night shift. Toma's a smart man, probably figures if he gets both his teams in here, I'll run out of money by next week." I pitched my voice just loud enough for the foreman to hear.
One of the carpenters snorted and muttered something in the local dialect that sounded suspiciously like agreement. Toma, halfway across the floor with a level in one hand, didn't even bother to look up.
Rose let herself smile this time, the edge of her paperwork tapping lightly on the counter. "So he's bleeding you dry already?"
"That's the rumor. But at least I get fresh coffee and company out of it." I nudged a case of bottled Starbucks across the counter, angling for her reaction. "Want one?"
Rose accepted the bottle, turning it in her hand without breaking eye contact. She didn't open it—just traced a finger along the edge of the label as she watched me over the rim of her paperwork. "Are you still getting customers, even with all the noise? I'd think the renovations would scare off the morning crowd."
I shrugged, giving the half-finished shelves a glance. "Sometimes. Not as many, obviously, but a few regulars wander in—usually just to see what's changed, or to stare at the new drinks. I'm not expecting big numbers until the dust settles." I paused, catching the flicker of concern in her eyes. "And before you ask, I'm fine on funds. After paying Toma for the whole job and stocking up for the next two weeks, I'm still sitting at about four and a half million."
Her eyes widened, just a fraction—a subtle shift, but enough to make the corner of her mouth twitch. "Four and a half million?" She exhaled, almost a laugh. "Well, I suppose that makes sense. Freya would probably pay anything just to get at you these days."
I stepped around the counter, closing the space between us, lowering my voice as if the work crew wasn't eavesdropping. "Freya can't have me," I said, meaning every word. "Not for any price." I let the pause hang, watching the light catch in her eyes. "But you might be able to—if you're willing to pay up."
She stared, not quite sure what I meant, until I grinned and finished, "All I want is another kiss."
The carpenters, who'd definitely been listening, burst out laughing and whistling, a few of them egging her on in their thick city drawl. Rose's cheeks flushed with color, but she didn't look away. Not even close.