002 Bret Beck, Merchant of Art and Odds
Bret Beck woke up with the first golden spill of light over his window shutters, stirred more by routine than urgency. He yawned deeply, scratched at the thinning patch of hair near his temple, and stretched until his joints popped like rusted hinges on a cellar door. In the modest warmth of his home, the scent of seared butter and crisped bread wafted in from the kitchen, where his beautiful wife hummed a folk tune as old as the hills and twice as comforting. She plated him a simple breakfast… soft eggs, a heel of rye, and grilled tomatoes… and he thanked her with a kiss on the cheek that made her smile with mock exasperation. Life wasn’t grand, but it was his, and it was good.
After eating, he buttoned his vest, slung his merchant's satchel over one shoulder, and stepped out into the steady bustle of Harle Fiefdom. It amazed him how the streets pulsed with energy now, no longer the muddy, half-built trails of ten years ago when it had still been a struggling frontier outpost. The city had grown fast… perhaps too fast… with tall stone walls, organized patrols, and even a rotating team of adventurers competent enough to claim bounties without burning down half a tavern in the process. Harle now boasted paved roads, public fountains, and a population diverse enough to warrant three dialects in a single marketplace. Prosperity made the air feel richer somehow, and Bret, despite the sweat gathering beneath his collar, was proud to be part of it.
He made the walk to his store with steady resolve, ignoring the mild ache in his knees and the sheen on his forehead. Some younger merchants had carriages, others employed errand boys, but Bret prided himself on his daily walks. He was rounder than most and carried a few extra years behind his eyes, but he considered himself fit… or at least fit enough to justify second helpings and a stubborn refusal to hire porters. Sweat, after all, was honest work made visible.
His shop, Beck & Relics, sat at the corner of a quieter street lined with ivy-covered buildings and copper lanterns. It was a humble antique shop with iron-framed windows and a hand-carved sign polished with care. Bret unlocked the door, stepped into the cool, familiar scent of old wood and aged paper, and took a deep breath. Motes of dust swirled in the light filtering through the glass panes, and everything was as it should be. No rush, no lines. This was his sanctuary.
He dusted off the shelves, adjusted a tilted portrait of some forgotten duke, and polished a carved bust of a dwarf philosopher, muttering critiques about the sculptor’s lack of nasal realism. He rarely opened shop this early, but today was a different matter. His trade… antiques, heirlooms, and the occasional enchanted artifact… didn't rely on foot traffic. He dealt in quiet negotiations, appraisal letters, and long games. Connections mattered more than crowds. Most dealers relied on salesmanship and theatrical flair; Bret, on the other hand, relied on his credentials: a graduate of the College of the Arts and a Silver Member of the Merchant’s Guild. While neither title made him a giant in the trade, he still considered himself a cut above the average hawker in the bazaar.
So why open early?
Simple. It was business.
Several weeks ago, while transporting a shipment of relics from Velkarth, Bret had hired adventurers to escort his caravan. Most were mercenaries with more ego than ethics. As fate would have it, halfway through the trip, the group turned on him, driven by greed, or perhaps sensing an easy score. He would’ve died there on the roadside, surrounded by broken crates and sharp steel, had it not been for one young adventurer in their midst who chose righteousness over riches. That man fought tooth and nail, repelled the traitors, and saved Bret’s life.
And now, that man had returned… not to claim a reward, but a favor.
Bret was still wiping the dwarf’s forehead with a dry cloth when a knock sounded against the front door. He didn’t bother checking, since he already knew who it was.
“Come in!” he called.
The door creaked open, and there stood the young man from that day, cleaner now, with fewer blood and more ink stains on his sleeves, but unmistakably him.
“Adventurer Ron!” Bret exclaimed, lowering the bust and stepping forward with surprising enthusiasm.
“Former adventurer, actually…” Ron said with a polite nod, his tone calm but firm.
Bret raised a brow and clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s good to have aspirations and dreams, but I want to say this in advance… You must lower your expectations.”
Ron chuckled lightly, then closed the door behind him. “I will lower my expectations as you say, Mr. Beck, but it will be my greatest regret if I didn’t even try, especially while I am still young.”
That was the part that made Bret pause. He wasn’t a man easily moved by passion; he’d seen too many bright-eyed youths crushed under the weight of the very dreams they clung to. And yet, Ron had something else… conviction, maybe even stubbornness. Bret had listened when Ron first approached him, explaining how, instead of a reward, he wanted help publishing a book. Not just any book, but a young dreamer’s book. A work of fiction, penned with care and ambition, filled with themes far removed from the usual epic chants and tavern bawdiness… or so the young man advertised.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
At first, it had sounded foolish. Publishing in this age was difficult, and literature outside of history, religious allegory, or war poetry rarely sold. But Ron had insisted he had the savings to support himself and a fallback if things went south. He had come prepared, not with coin, but with clarity.
So, Bret agreed. Against his better judgment, against the voice in his head telling him to cut his losses, he agreed.
Today was the appointment… the day they’d talk seriously about next steps. Bret gestured to a pair of cushioned chairs near the counter.
“Well, then. Sit down, Ron. Let’s talk about this book of yours. Just don’t expect miracles. This isn’t the capital. It’s Harle. We work in handshakes and bartered trust.”
Ron sat, unrolling a neatly bound manuscript from his satchel, eyes alight with both nervousness and quiet fire.
“I don’t expect miracles,” he said. “Only a chance.”
Bret considered himself a good judge of people. A merchant had to be. Over the years, he'd met conmen posing as noblemen, aristocrats with the manners of stable boys, and farmhands who turned out to be scholars in disguise. Yet, even with that seasoned eye of his, he found it difficult to get a solid read on the young man seated across from him.
Ron didn’t look remarkable at first glance… he wore plain clothes, neither threadbare nor extravagant, the sort you'd see on a well-off commoner or a retired guardsman. His build was solid and balanced, like someone accustomed to manual labor but not obsessed with strength. What caught Bret’s attention wasn’t the clothes or the posture, but the face.
Rugged. Scarred. Not disfigured, just lived-in. A short, sharp scar cut the corner of Ron’s right lip, almost giving him a permanent half-smirk. A longer one traced his left cheek, pale against his otherwise healthy skin. His dark brown hair was neither long nor short, more practical than stylish. But it was his eyes that unsettled Bret… the calm, almost meditative stillness in them. That gentleness didn't belong to a brawler or a sellsword. It belonged to someone who chose when to be violent. That, in itself, was far more dangerous.
Bret leaned forward, folding his hands on the polished counter between them. “Before we talk business, let’s first talk about you.”
Ron tilted his head slightly, intrigued but unsurprised. “Hmmm… Okay…”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three.”
Bret blinked. He had expected someone younger. Or maybe he had just hoped so. “And how long have you been an adventurer?”
“I started when I was eleven. So… roughly twelve years.”
Bret let out a short, disbelieving whistle. “I know adventurers start young, but that sure is young! Most kids are still learning to use a sword properly at that age, not risking their lives in the wilds.”
Ron only nodded. “It was what I needed to do.”
That statement was plain, but Bret heard the weight behind it. He didn’t press. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back, regarding the young man through narrowed eyes. “Twelve years in the field. That’s not something you throw away lightly. Don’t you think it’s a waste to leave all that experience behind for a career you’re uncertain you'll even thrive in?”
The question wasn’t meant to mock, but to measure. Ron had offered no illusions of grandeur, no fantastical claims of destiny… just a favor, a manuscript, and a belief in what he'd written. Still, the world wasn't kind to dreamers. Bret had seen too many chase ideas only to end up buried beneath them.
“Talent,” Bret added, “is the minimum threshold for novelists. Even then, it’s not always enough.”
“I refuse to believe that,” Ron said, not with defiance, but quiet certainty.
“Oh?” Bret raised a brow. “Then tell me… what is the minimum threshold for a novelist?”
Ron looked him in the eye. “Willingness.”
That word landed like a stone dropped in still water. Bret stared at him, momentarily speechless. Of all the answers he’d expected… effort, perseverance, inspiration, even stubbornness… willingness wasn’t one of them. Yet the moment Ron said it, Bret knew it was the most honest answer a person could give.
It was impressive. Dangerous, too.
If Ron had said effort, Bret could have countered with a hundred real-world obstacles. A thousand reasons why effort alone would fail. Money, food, illness, disaster, responsibility. This world was harsh, sometimes absurdly so. You could die from a single misstep, a stray arrow, or a goblin with a lucky jab. Art, literature, beauty… those were luxuries, not guarantees. They belonged to those who had the time to entertain such things. The upper class, the rich, and the protected.
But willingness? That bypassed all of that, as if he was saying he was willing to die for it.
It wasn’t about success. It was about choice! Choosing to create even when the odds said not to. That was dangerous thinking in a world like this. Admirable, certainly… but dangerous.
Bret let out a slow sigh and stood, walking toward a nearby shelf lined with old tomes and ledgers. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “You do know,” he said while running a hand across a spine of cracked leather, “that being willing doesn’t guarantee being read. Stories need more than just ink on paper. They need someone to believe in them. Someone to carry them.”
“I know,” Ron replied softly.
“And if no one reads it?”
“Then at least I wrote it.”
Bret turned, studying the young man again. The gentleness in his eyes hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened, hardened into something like resolve.
He returned to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. “Alright, Ron. We’ll start with one copy. Leather-bound. I’ll arrange for a few minor patrons to take a look, see if there’s any interest. I’m not promising miracles. Just a foothold. Of course, I will have to judge first what you wrote.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” Ron said. “Please, read it, Mr. Beck.”
Thus, Bret picked up his reading glasses and read.