Shadows Over Arcadia

I am Ren Drakemore, age 5, and I am the unwanted second prince of the kingdom of Arcadia. But one day, I will be King.

Lady Willow and I continue down the cobblestone road toward the apothecary. We are only a few storefronts away when, to my surprise, she suddenly turns right, heading toward a second building. It is much larger and even more opulent.

Like a cathedral, it is overwhelming in its grandeur, with towering spires, intricate carvings, and gilded adornments. Every inch seems to scream wealth and power. Above the entrance, a large marble sign inlaid with gold declares in bold letters: Merchant's Guild. A cathedral indeed, but one devoted to coin, not gods.

"Before we can sell our potions, I need to register with the Merchant's Guild," Willow says.

"Why?"

"It's the law. You can't do business in the kingdom without being registered."

"But why?" I ask again, more firmly. "Why do we need permission just to sell something?"

"Perhaps I can explain the local economy to you later," Willow says gently. "But this isn't the time or place."

That answer isn't very satisfying, but as we step through the massive double doors, my next why gets lost in my awe at the sheer extravagance of this place.

The Merchant's Guild is enormous, more like a palace than a place of business. The floor stretches out in polished marble, veined with gold and silver that catch the light streaming through stained glass windows high above. Towering columns line the main hall, each carved in the likeness of legendary mages and dragons, their eyes set with colored gems. They glint in the light of a giant crystal chandelier hanging overhead.

It radiates a sense of obscene excess.

The air carries the faint scent of polished stone and ink. Despite the building's grandeur, the hall is mostly empty, save for a few merchants and nobles seated along the outer edges.

They are seated at large, ornate tables, likely in the midst of negotiations or signing contracts under the watchful eyes of guild attendants. Willow leads me toward the far end of the hall, where a service counter awaits. Behind it stands a surly-looking attendant, his sharp features locked in a permanent scowl. As we approach, his eyes sweep over us with thinly veiled annoyance.

"What do you want?" he asks curtly.

Unfazed by his rudeness, Willow Answers. "I wish to register," her calm demeanor a stark contrast to his impatience.

The attendant hands Lady Willow a form with a gruff, "Fill this out." She picks up a quill from the counter and scrapes it across the parchment in a blur. I glance over her shoulder and see that the form asks for basic information, including her name, the products she intends to sell, and where she plans to sell them. It all seems simple and routine.

Or at least it does, until the attendant drops a hefty book onto the counter. Its cover is stamped with gold lettering that reads: Merchant Guild Rules.

"The registration fee is five silver coins," the attendant says briskly. "Also, by signing this form, you agree to follow all guild rules outlined in this manual." He taps the tome for emphasis.

"Understood," Lady Willow replies, accepting the book with one hand while retrieving coins from her storage bag with the other.

"Oh, and the manual costs ten silver coins," the attendant adds with a smirk.

They charge you to read the rules they're forcing you to follow. What a scam!

"So, fifteen coins, then," Willow says calmly, placing the coins on the counter without the slightest hint of annoyance.

The attendant quickly counts the silvers, then retrieves a blank metal card from beneath the counter. He places it into a black box, which emits a small flash of light. When the card emerges, it now bears Lady Willow's name, her home guild, registration number, and business type: Retail Sales.

Willow accepts the card and slips it, along with the manual, into her bag. We both turn to leave but pause, glancing back as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps catches our attention.

"Lady Willow! What a surprise," comes a booming voice, thick with self-importance.

A large, corpulent man strides toward us, his robes lavishly embellished with gold and jewels. He carries himself with the pompous arrogance of nobility, his expression twisted into a sneer. Though he addresses Willow, his gaze stays locked on me. His beady black eyes radiate cold hatred, clashing with the false smile stretched across his wide face.

"I never expected to see you, or that boy, outside the castle," he continues, his tone dripping with disdain.

I have no idea who this man is, but it's clear he knows us. And based on the venom in his expression, he's definitely not a fan.

"Lord Fobos," Lady Willow says evenly.

"It's Guild Master here," Fobos corrects, puffing himself up.

Willow smiles and raises a single eyebrow, clearly amused by his pride in the title.

"Does the king know you've let this rat out of the castle?" Fobos asks, his gaze still fixed on me, eyes narrowing. "I believe he warned you that stepping out of his tower might be bad for his health."

A cold chill rolls down my spine, and I instinctively shift closer to Willow, placing both her and a few steps of distance between myself and Fobos. That was a threat, thinly veiled but unmistakable. He was warning me that something might happen if I showed my face in public.

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"I appreciate the king's… concern," Lady Willow answers, her tone icy. "But I am more than capable of dealing with any swine who might wish him harm."

Fobos snorts, his face twisting with derision. "I never understood why the king didn't deal with him on day one," he mutters, dropping all pretense of a smile. His hatred for me is written plainly across his face. "It's a mystery why he let you live. You should mind yourself, or he may become less generous."

Lady Willow's expression hardens. "If the king has an issue with his son's activities, so be it. But who are you, a count, to question the whereabouts and actions of the prince?" she replies sharply, her voice as precise as a blade.

Without waiting for a response, she takes my hand and turns, leading me away.

"Some prince," Fobos sneers behind us. "Resorting to working his maid as a merchant to get by."

"Ignore him," Lady Willow murmurs as we stride toward the exit.

Once outside, she turns to me. "That pathetic excuse for a man is the head of one of the twelve noble families that make up your father's court. He's also one of your father's most loyal supporters. That is the kind of man your father gives power."

"He really hates me," I say, still unsettled by his words.

"He was trying to get a rise out of us," Willow replies. "This isn't the time to respond. The king hasn't killed you because he fears me. His supporters have left you alone under his orders. But the day will come when their fear of the man you could become outweighs their fear of me. That is why you must prepare yourself."

I nod, considering her words carefully. "I understand. We can't show our cards until we're ready to play them."

And right now, I don't have many cards to play.

A faint smile touches Lady Willow's lips, her approval clear as we continue toward the apothecary. As we draw closer, I notice something I hadn't seen before. A long line of sick and injured people stretches along the building's exterior. Their faces are a mix of sickly, gaunt, and desperate. Some lean on makeshift crutches. Others clutch bloodied bandages.

As we reach the gilded doors, a guard stationed at the entrance steps aside to let us through, blocking the others still waiting outside. Disappointed murmurs echo behind us as we step inside.

We enter hand in hand, like a mother taking her child shopping. The interior of the apothecary is pristine and meticulously organized. Neat rows of shelves display potions, jars of pills, herbal remedies, and other magical treatments. The air carries the faint, sharp scent of alchemical concoctions. At the back of the room is a service counter, beyond which lie a waiting area and several treatment rooms.

"Why are those people waiting outside?" I ask, glancing back at the doors.

"They need healing but can't afford it," Willow says coolly. "They're hoping someone will offer them charity. A standard healing potion costs ten silver coins, which is more than most of them can pay."

"Ten silver? Is that a lot?" I ask, confused. "You just paid fifteen silver to the guild."

"That's more than two months' wages for a commoner," she replies.

I blink, stunned. I had no idea the potions we made were worth so much.

As we approach the counter, I see three young adventurers, none of them older than eighteen, pleading with the clerk. Two of them support a third, who is slumped over, his face pale and strained. Blood seeps through deep gashes in his back and leg.

"Please," one of them begs, sliding a pouch across the counter. "Can you accept nine silver? It's all we have."

The clerk frowns and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but healing potions are ten silver. No exceptions."

"We were on a quest," the adventurer explains, his voice cracking with frustration. "The reward was only five silver, and we pooled everything we had, but…" He stops, glancing back at his injured friend.

A pang of sadness and anger rises in my chest. How could healing, something so basic and necessary, be priced out of reach for the very people who need it most? I've read about adventurers and their service to the kingdom. They are the ones who protect us from monsters and bandits. We can't let the heroes this kingdom depends on die from treatable wounds.

While my attention is fixed on the adventurers, Lady Willow begins speaking with another clerk, asking to meet the shop's owner about selling our potions. As she talks, I reach into her bag and pull out one of them. Ignoring the questioning look from the clerk at the counter, I step forward and press the bottle into the adventurer's hand.

"Here," I say firmly. "Save your money."

The adventurer stares at me in disbelief before his expression softens with gratitude. "Thank you so much!" he exclaims, quickly uncorking the potion and pouring it into his injured friend's mouth.

A faint green glow surrounds the wounded adventurer as the potion takes effect, his wounds mending instantly. He sits up, blinking in surprise and relief.

"You're a lifesaver, kid," the healed adventurer says, his voice thick with emotion. "What's your name?"

I hesitate for a moment, glancing at Lady Willow. "Ren," I say simply.

The three of them thank me repeatedly before heading toward the exit, rejoicing loudly as they go.

I turn my attention back to Lady Willow's conversation just as a friendly-looking older woman with gray hair tied in a tidy bun emerges from one of the treatment rooms. She wears spotless white robes trimmed in red, with the healer's insignia—a red lotus—embroidered on each collar. Her demeanor is polite, though her posture remains stiff and businesslike.

"I heard you wanted to speak with me. I'm Duchess Muara, head healer and owner of this apothecary," she says with a warm smile. "How may I help you, ma'am?"

"We have fifty high-grade healing potions—" Lady Willow begins.

"Forty-nine," I correct quickly.

Lady Willow shoots me a glance before continuing. "Forty-nine high-grade healing potions and fifty grade-five poison-curing potions we'd like to sell."

Duchess Muara nods thoughtfully. "Absolutely. According to guild rules, we can purchase your potions at five silver coins each, and they'll be sold in the store for ten silver." She speaks matter-of-factly, pulling a ledger from a nearby counter to record the transaction.

Lady Willow agrees without hesitation and begins retrieving the potions from her storage bag. As she places them neatly on the counter, Muara carefully tallies each one.

I can't hold back any longer. A question burns in my chest, demanding to be heard.

"Why are they so expensive?" I ask, louder than I meant to. "There are people outside who need them. If you made them cheaper, more people could afford them. Isn't that better?"

Muara pauses for a moment, her pen hovering above the page. Her expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes hardens.

"I don't set the prices," she says quietly. "The guild does. And the guild answers to Guild Master Fobos."

She closes the ledger with a soft thud.

"If it were up to me, things would be different."

"Fobos?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Muara nods, her expression darkening. "Yes, but I wouldn't get your hopes up. I've tried speaking with him before. It was… hopeless. He seems to believe that selling potions at affordable prices would somehow make them less available to the nobility."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with quiet frustration. For a moment, I say nothing. I glance toward Lady Willow, who continues arranging the potions on the counter, seemingly unfazed by the conversation.

"Lady Muara," Lady Willow says, smoothly shifting the topic back to business, "we would also like to arrange regular deliveries of one hundred healing potions and fifty curing potions."

Lady Muara considers this for a moment before nodding. "I think we can agree to that. At that quantity, we can manage weekly deliveries, but only as long as we have the storage space. I'll authorize my clerks to purchase the potions upon delivery, provided we can accommodate them."

"Understood," Lady Willow replies, her tone polite but businesslike. The two of them continue finalizing the details while I drift into thought.

As we prepare to leave, I find myself thinking about the idea of appealing to Lord Fobos to lower potion prices. I am one hundred percent sure that the man who was threatening to kill me five minutes ago is not going to do anything I ask. Still, I want to help the people suffering outside.

If I want to change that, I'll have to find another way.