Marcellus remembered Ingrid's first reaction when she stumbled upon the book, "Is this for selling?"—revealing an awareness of, or even a connection to, black market channels.
Edwin had once said that in Mythralis, information was currency. Her slip-up in not inquiring about Edwin's identity pointed to a known relationship there as well.
Marcellus could also recall the subtle Gaulish undertones in Captain Crowe's otherwise impeccable speech of Valar—tones that Ingrid herself often used to add an air of exoticism to her persona for clients.
Each piece was a dab of paint on a canvas, and the portrait it was forming was not one he liked, Ingrid knew Crowe and most probably operated under him she also knew Edwin, though the nature of that relationship was yet undefined. But one thing was crystal clear, she was not trustworthy.
This knowledge was a nail, and Marcellus felt as if he were the hammer, poised and ready to strike. And yet, as he looked at her, all he could think was how things could have been different—if only trust wasn't such a fragile, broken thing.
Marcellus looked at Ginger, his eyes a complex tapestry of emotion—regret, loss, but most of all, a hardened glint of betrayal.
No words were necessary; the air between them felt heavier, saturated with a newfound animosity. As he sat there, pondering the shattering of a trust that might have been, his face remained stoic, unreadable. But within, a cold seed of resentment had begun to sprout, its roots digging deep into the core of his being.
Just then, the door creaked open. Finn entered a practised ease in his steps.
As Finn walked into the room, a glint of metal caught the dim light—a coin pouch, presumably from Captain Crowe. His entry seemed almost timed, a stark reminder of the ever-shifting allegiances and currencies of trust and betrayal that fueled Mythralis.
"Saw you were awake, thought you'd like to get this settled," Finn said casually, tossing the coin pouch onto a small table near Marcellus.
"From Crowe?" Marcellus questioned, though he already knew the answer.
Finn nodded. "Aye, for your recent... services."
Marcellus looked at the coin pouch, then back at Ingrid. In the stark reality of the morning, the coins felt more like a transaction, a price paid for loyalty or, perhaps, a nudge toward a different sort of betrayal.
In a fluid motion, Marcellus picked up the pouch and weighed it in his hand. It felt heavy, but not in the way coins should; this weight was metaphorical, fraught with implications and unspoken agreements.
As he slid the pouch into his pocket, his eyes met Ingrid's. No words were exchanged, but in that brief moment, a multitude of messages were silently conveyed.
The chasm between them had widened irrevocably, and in his eyes, she would read the end of whatever trust might have been.
He then turned to Finn. "Let Crowe know that his payment has been received and I will keep him informed."
Finn's eyes narrowed momentarily, reading between the lines, and then he simply shrugged. "I'll relay the message."
Finn, sensing his cue to exit, gave a slight nod and retreated from the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The room seemed to exhale as Finn exited, leaving Marcellus alone with his thoughts, and Ingrid with hers.
Soon he got up and left.
...
Marcellus clutched the leather pouch at his belt, feeling the weight of the 130 silver coins inside. He headed first for the moneychanger, a thin man with keen eyes who quickly counted the silver and exchanged it for a hefty pile of copper coins. Copper would be more practical for his immediate needs.
Marcellus had to pay a small fee to convert his silver coins into copper. less than 1 percent of the total.
Next, he found himself in a bustling marketplace, vendors hawking goods from open-air stalls and pushcarts.
He moved towards a clothier's booth, rifling through various garments. Rich hues of purples and reds caught his eye, but they were priced beyond what he was willing to spend today.
Settling for a simple brown shirt and black leather pants, he paid the vendor, relishing the feeling of better-quality fabric between his fingers. Replacing his worn footwear was a small victory, but one that would make the long days easier on his feet.
His shopping complete, he sought nourishment, settling down at a humble eatery. He broke bread and slurped some lukewarm soup, appreciating the sustenance if not the taste. His body fueled, and Marcellus headed toward the blacksmith's.
Rows of swords gleamed from the rack, their blades capturing the essence of combat and elegance in a myriad of shapes and sizes. Some carried exorbitant prices, promising unmatched craftsmanship and enchantments.
He chose one of medium quality—good balance, a keen edge, but without the embellishments that would scream 'wealthy target' on the streets. It was a sword that spoke of practicality, not ostentation.
Later, he found himself standing before a blanket strewn with antiquities—odd trinkets and curious artifacts. Amidst the clutter, a dagger beckoned him. Its hilt was wrapped in weathered leather laces and engraved with letters foreign to his eyes. He picked it up, appreciating the subtle curve of the blade, its keen edge suggesting excellent craftsmanship. The man behind the blanket grinned as Marcellus handed over to him 70 copper coins.
Before leaving the marketplace, Marcellus also acquired some stationery—a quill, ink, parchment, and a small jar of sealing wax. As he took inventory of his acquisitions, the sense of preparedness grew within him. Though 130 silver coins had been reduced to a much smaller sum, the value of what he'd gained—clothing, weapons, and the means to communicate with Adin—felt like a suitable investment in the unknown path that lay ahead.
In his new leather pants, and with the simple sword at his side, Marcellus felt a tangible transformation in his readiness.
Thus, more confident and well-equipped, Marcellus took his first steps towards the uncertainties that awaited him.