As we stepped inside the building, an enthusiastic shopkeeper walked briskly toward us. I recognized him immediately as one of the merchants who had traveled with the old merchant whose name I'd learned was Thulan. The short, stout man was originally from Gorei. He was one of the most trusted men to the old merchant—more like his second in command in the business.
"What do you need, good customers? We have everything from fresh fruit to exotic imported things—" the man started his explanation with a happy, excited voice, though I could detect desperation dripping beneath his cheerfulness. The store was completely devoid of any other customers except for two or three staff members working quietly in the back. They clearly weren't doing well at all.
We let our hoods down, uncovering our identities. The man stopped talking mid-sentence—he looked at us with his mouth hanging open for a long second, and then he dropped to his knees abruptly.
"Your Majesties!" he exclaimed in shock. And then he added almost immediately, his voice breaking, "Please help us!"
By the time Arvid had learned the full story of what had happened to the old merchant Thulan, he was absolutely furious. But he kept his composure chillingly intact, not letting his rage show on his face.
Then we were taken to see the old merchant himself. His modest home was located right behind the store building. Ever since he had been publicly whipped by the granddaughter of the Gunasera family, he had been completely bedridden, yet to wake up from his injured state. This man had been so brave, taking such an enormous risk for us without thinking twice about the consequences. Seeing such a strong man now lying helpless in bed was something that I would never forgive. Someone would pay for this.
Arvid walked over and gently grabbed the old man's weathered hand. "I'll avenge you, my dear friend," he said quietly, giving a solemn promise to the unconscious man.
The merchant Fenger, who had guided us here, spoke up with obvious distress. "That woman, Maradi Gunasera, publicly declared that anyone who buys anything from our store will not be able to attend Gunasera Academy—not even their sons or daughters or any family members. Since then, our customers have dwindled drastically. I heard they hold a complete monopoly over the civil servants who work in the imperial bureaucratic offices. Almost all the civil servants in Arpa came from their academy as graduates."
He continued, his voice shaking, "After she destroyed our reputation like this, it's been so incredibly hard. Most of our expensive wares went to waste, rotting or becoming unsellable. We even wrote to you directly, Your Majesty, trying to report this injustice. But the letter never reached you—the civil servants in charge of delivering it to the imperial palace tore it up right in front of our faces, laughing."
Fenger's eyes filled with tears. "Please give us justice, Your Majesty!" he pleaded desperately.
And the other merchants from their cohort, who had gathered around as word of our presence traveled, also repeated those same words. "Justice, Your Majesty! Please!"
These were people who genuinely loved their merchant guild. They had built this place together with the old man, pouring out their blood, sweat, and tears over years of hard work. Even after this devastating disaster, they hadn't abandoned him or fled. They were still here, trying desperately to hold onto their already broken rope—hoping against hope that the future would somehow be bright again. If anyone deserved justice, it was them.
These people inside the walls of Arpa had not been subject to the civil war and bloodshed because of their bravery in helping us. And instead of being rewarded for that courage, they had been thrown into this terrible situation because of us. We had to make it right.
"Be ready tomorrow morning in front of the palace wall. There will be a gift waiting for you," was all Arvid said before he bid them a respectful farewell and turned to leave. I followed him silently.
As we stepped back onto the street, we both looked back at the building behind us. The wooden name board reading 'Surga Merchant Guild' was clearly visible under the oil lamps that illuminated it from all sides.
"I didn't reward them publicly before because I believed that too much power concentrated in one place is not a good thing," Arvid said quietly as we walked. "They're already a big enough guild, and if I gave them even more power and influence, wouldn't they potentially misuse it? That was my thought process at the time. There have been too many people that I gave power to who then abused it and caused innocent people harm. I didn't want them to become like that."
He paused, his voice heavy with regret. "But now it seems clear that if I had recognized their contribution publicly and officially, this wouldn't have happened. That old man had absolute balls of steel to lie so convincingly to Imperial soldiers like that. I feel like I've disappointed them greatly."
I reached over and rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. "It's not your fault, Arvid. You made the best decision you could with what you knew. And you can still make this right. So please don't blame yourself so harshly."
He nodded somewhat absently, still processing. Then he gestured to one of his soldiers who had been accompanying us secretly, disguised in the crowd, and asked him to send an urgent message to arrange something specific for tomorrow.
Then we proceeded to our next and final location of our evening outing.
---
The seamstress shop was located on the edge of the bustling merchant district, positioned almost close to the first defensive wall. It was a charming two-story building that didn't scream luxury or wealth at all. It was situated away from all the noise and chaos of the main streets, creating an atmosphere that felt almost like home—peaceful and welcoming.
The first story of the building functioned as a shop, displaying ready-made clothes, bolts of fabric, and spools of thread available for sale. Everything was meticulously organized by color and type of fabric, creating a rainbow effect. There was a traditional hand-weaving machine situated in one corner, and there were two seamstresses currently working there diligently under brightened oil lamps, their hands moving with practiced skill.
The stairwell leading upstairs was located in the opposite corner, beautifully decorated with various fabric decorations shaped like flowers and leaves and butterflies. It looked like an enchanted entryway to a fairytale. Everything in this shop was neat, had its proper place, and was obviously well cared for with pride.
After a minute or two spent taking in the pleasant atmosphere, Prince Yarun descended from the stairs. He immediately urged us to come up, adding with mild reproach that we were later than we had promised.
We ascended the stairs behind him, his sense of urgency rubbing off on us and making us hurry. At the top of the stairs was a cozy home space. It had a small sitting area where the seamstress received visitors, and a long work table now covered in a bright red cloth. There were a few more smaller tables that held some ongoing sewing projects in various stages of completion. And there was a large cupboard filled with neatly arranged, color-coded fabric and balls of thread.
In the corner, there was a closed door. As soon as we finished climbing up, that door opened and a woman walked out purposefully.
She was a small woman with unusually pale skin and striking light blue eyes. She had light brown hair styled simply. She didn't look like a Southerner at all—her features were distinctly foreign. And she was genuinely beautiful. It was a mature kind of beauty that she carried gracefully into her advanced years, the kind that only deepened with age.
She looked us over with those penetrating blue eyes and walked directly over to where we stood.
"You were late," were her first words, stated matter-of-factly without preamble.