Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four: A Price Already Paid, Part Two

  Jace’s fingers twitched, itching for the familiar weight of his blade. Not that it would do him any good here. He willed himself to meet the shopkeeper’s gaze, even as something deep in his gut curled tight with unease. The air in the shop felt heavier now, thick with something he couldn’t name, like the moment before a storm broke.

  “I need answers,” he said, keeping his tone steady.

  The shopkeeper chuckled, the sound like dry parchment crumbling between fingers. “Don’t we all?” he mused. “But answers, dear boy, come at a price. Just because I have them, doesn’t mean I owe them to you. That is not how things work here.”

  Jace clenched his jaw. The White Raven Ring pressed against his skin like a shackle, a cold reminder of past mistakes. He took another step inside, and behind him, the door groaned shut with a finality that made the hairs on his arms rise.

  “I’ve paid before,” he said. “You’ll find I’m not afraid of the cost.”

  The shopkeeper’s smile widened, thin and sharp as a blade. For a heartbeat, Jace could swear the shadows leaned in, drawn like breath before a whisper.

  “Then let us see,” the man said smoothly, gesturing toward a low table draped in deep green velvet. “What truths you’re willing to bleed for this time.”

  Jace hesitated. The air itself seemed to tighten around him, pressing against his ribs, whispering something just beyond hearing. And from somewhere in the distant gloom of the shop, there was laughter—thin, brittle, cruel.

  The shopkeeper’s gaze gleamed like frozen glass. “The boy with the ring returns,” he said, his voice a purr that settled into the silence like a needle slipping into flesh. “Tell me, how is it treating you?”

  Jace squared his shoulders, shoving down the unease curling in his stomach. “Depends,” he said. “How much of what happened when I bought it was manipulation?”

  The shopkeeper let out a breathy laugh, folding his spindly fingers together with unsettling grace. “All of it, I’m afraid,” he admitted with a feigned sigh. “Though I’d call it necessity, not manipulation.”

  Jace’s pulse kicked against his ribs. “The blood pact?”

  “Binding,” the man confirmed, his tone almost… regretful. “But not malicious. The ring is a powerful artifact, and power always demands a cost. You were… unprepared at the time, true, but I saw potential.”

  Jace’s stomach turned. “Potential for what?“ he snapped. “You could have warned me.”

  The shopkeeper tilted his head, watching him with something close to amusement. “Would you have listened?” he asked softly. “You were new. Hungry for strength. I gave you what you needed to survive.“ A shadow flickered across his features, subtle but unmistakable. “And what your father would have wanted.”

  Jace stilled.

  The words slid into his ribs like a knife, sharp and unwelcome.

  His father.

  The title felt hollow, too big and too distant for someone he had never known. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to push past the sudden tightness in his chest. “You say that,” he said, “but from everything I’ve heard, the Dark One doesn’t want anything for me. He barely even knows I exist.”

  The shopkeeper’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, as though he had been expecting that answer. “Ah,” he murmured, folding his hands together, “now that is the right question.”

  Jace narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t ask a question.”

  The man chuckled, a sound like pages crumbling to dust. “No,” he said smoothly. “But you should have.”

  A pause. A moment where the world stilled.

  Jace exhaled, slow and steady, forcing the tension from his limbs. “Then I’ll ask now.” He met the shopkeeper’s gaze, his Truthsense pressing heavy against his ribs. “Did he leave the ring for me?”

  The shopkeeper leaned forward, long fingers trailing idly over the counter’s worn surface. “No,” he said simply. “He did not.”

  The words landed like a fist to Jace’s gut.

  He had known—suspected, at least—but hearing it aloud twisted something deep inside him.

  The shopkeeper continued, unbothered. “The Dark One does not leave things, Jace. He takes. He hoards. He consumes. If something of his was lost, it was never willingly given.“ His glassy, pale gaze flicked to the ring. “And that? That was taken from him long ago.”

  Jace looked down at the silver band circling his finger, its faint warmth pressing against his skin like a heartbeat. He had thought—he had assumed—that there had been some kind of intention behind it. Some kind of choice. But if the Dark One had never meant for him to have it… then what was it?

  “Then why do I have it?” he asked, quieter now.

  The shopkeeper’s lips curved, his expression as unreadable as the countless relics buried in the shop’s endless shelves. “Because I gave it to you.”

  Jace’s breath hitched. “What?”

  The air in the room seemed to shift, pressing down against his skin.

  “You think artifacts of such power simply fall into hands like yours?“ The shopkeeper exhaled, amused. “No, Jace. That ring did not come to you by chance. I placed it in your path. I made sure you were the one to claim it.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Jace’s fingers curled into a fist. He swallowed against the sudden dry ache in his throat. “Why?”

  The shopkeeper tilted his head, as if considering how much to say. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he spread his hands. “Because I am the Keeper of Chests.”

  Jace’s pulse thudded in his ears.

  “The what?”

  The shadows behind the man seemed to shift, deepening into something darker than they had any right to be. The shopkeeper’s voice was smooth, slow, and curled like smoke. “There are things in this world—treasures, artifacts, knowledge—that do not belong to just anyone.“ His gaze flickered, sharp and knowing. “They wait to be found by the right hands. And I am the one who keeps them hidden until those hands are ready. For I am the Keeper.”

  Jace felt his breath catch.

  Not just a merchant. Not just a collector. A guardian. A force that decided what was kept and what was revealed.

  The thought sent a shiver through him.

  “You’re saying you’re a god.” His voice was flat.

  The shopkeeper’s smile deepened. “Of sorts.”

  Jace’s stomach twisted. “Of sorts?”

  The man’s fingers tapped idly against the counter, a slow, rhythmic sound. “Of treasures to be found,” he said, “and prices to be paid.”

  Jace’s expression hardened.

  “No treasure without a price.”

  The words were spoken like a law, like something woven into the fabric of reality itself.

  Jace drew a sharp breath, steadying himself. “And what’s my price?”

  The shopkeeper’s smile didn’t falter. “Ah. Now that,“ he mused, “is a question you should be asking yourself.”

  The words settled like lead in Jace’s stomach.

  His fingers drifted toward the ring again, as if touching it might somehow give him the answers he didn’t have.

  Had he traded something without realizing it? Had he already paid?

  Or was the price still waiting to be collected?

  A cold unease curled around his ribs.

  The shopkeeper watched him, quiet now. Studying. As though waiting for Jace to put something together that he hadn’t yet.

  Jace exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside. He couldn’t afford to spiral now. He had come here for something, hadn’t he? Answers. Real ones.

  His gaze snapped back to the shopkeeper. “You knew him,” he said, voice steady despite the storm clawing at his chest.

  The man inclined his head slightly. “I did.”

  “Before he became the Dark One.”

  The shopkeeper’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”

  Jace’s throat tightened. “Then tell me. What was he like?”

  The shopkeeper hesitated.

  It wasn’t hesitation in the way most people faltered—not uncertainty, not doubt. It was something else. Something older. Like the pause before a pendulum swung.

  When he finally spoke it was in hushed tones. “He was a force of nature. A scholar. A conqueror. A warrior.” The words rolled slow, deliberate. “And he was blind. To what he had. To what he lost.” His gaze flicked downward, toward the ring. “He did not leave you that. He would never have given it up willingly. But even fools…” His lips quirked. “Even fools leave pieces of themselves behind, whether they mean to or not.”

  Jace felt something shift inside him. A thread snapping, or maybe connecting.

  His mind spun with too many questions, too many tangled answers that only led to more dead ends. He took a slow breath, pressing a hand against his temple.

  “I don’t want to destroy him,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “But if there’s no other way…” His fingers curled. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  The shopkeeper studied him, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

  “I don’t envy your path,” he murmured. A pause. Then, softer, “But I’ll give you this—there are still pieces of him worth saving. If you can find them.”

  The words settled between them, heavy and immovable.

  Jace turned, intent on leaving, his mind already unraveling what little he had learned.

  But just as he reached the door, the shopkeeper’s words sliced through the dim light.

  The shopkeeper’s voice shifted, his tone almost whimsical. “My shop,” he said, spreading his pale hands, “people find it when they need it. It is both a curse and a gift. And you, boy—you need something.“ His pale eyes gleamed, sharp with knowing. “What are you searching for?”

  Jace hesitated. Instinct told him to shut this conversation down, to turn and leave before he let the man sink his hooks in any deeper.

  But the thought of Roandia stopped him.

  The ruined city. The unanswered questions gnawing at the back of his mind. The feeling that something had been waiting for him there, just beneath the surface, unseen but watching.

  He took a slow breath. “Do you have anything on the history of Roandia?”

  The shopkeeper’s lips curved.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just turned, his fingers drifting over the rows of ancient tomes, moving with a slow, deliberate grace. The shop seemed to shift around him, the shelves groaning, the candlelight flickering as if something unseen had exhaled.

  Then—thud.

  He pulled a book from the shadows, thick and weighty, its leather cover cracked with age. The gold script on its surface was faded but still legible, the kind of lettering that had been painstakingly crafted by a careful hand long ago. An Unveiled Histories of Roandian Politics and the Kingsbound Ledger.

  Jace raised an eyebrow. “Price?”

  The shopkeeper chuckled softly, the sound dry as old parchment. He breathed deep, brushing a speck of dust from the cover. “The price was paid by another.” He lifted his gaze, watching Jace carefully. “By your mother, long ago.”

  Jace’s pulse stuttered.

  He felt the words before he fully understood them, a weight dropping into his chest, sinking through his ribs.

  “My—“ He stopped. Swallowed. “My mother?”

  The shopkeeper inclined his head. “She came to me once, when you were barely more than a shadow on the world.” His fingers skimmed the book’s spine, tracing the worn leather. “She asked that when the time came—when you were ready—this be given to you.”

  Jace’s heart pounded against his ribs.

  His mother. His mother had been here.

  She had known about this place. Had planned for him to be here, standing in this exact spot, reaching for this exact book.

  He exhaled, unsteady. “And what was the price?”

  The shopkeeper’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “That,” he murmured, “is not for me to say.”

  Jace’s fingers curled at his sides. The Truthsense in his ribs pulsed, steady and insistent, like a second heartbeat.

  A hundred instincts screamed at him to walk away. To not take something that had been lying in wait for him, meant for him long before he had ever thought to seek it.

  But his mother had left this behind.

  For him.

  Jace reached out.

  The book settled into his grip, heavier than he expected—not merely an object, but an anchor pulling him toward some unseen depth. The worn leather breathed against his fingertips, its weight pressing into his palm with the insistence of something long-buried yet stubbornly alive.

  Item Acquired:

  An Unveiled Histories of Roandian Politics and the Kingsbound Ledger.

  +17 to Spirit Constitution while in your possession

  For a long moment, he didn’t speak, the silence around him thick with unasked questions.

  Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps marking a rhythm against cobblestones that seemed to echo with anticipation.

  Outside, the air embraced him with unexpected coldness, wrapping around his shoulders like a warning. The streets had grown too quiet, the usual city hum retreating into itself, leaving behind a hollowness that resonated in his chest.

  By the time he looked back, the shop was… gone. Not hidden or obscured, but erased from the cityscape as if reality itself had swallowed the memory of its existence.

  Like it had never been there at all—yet the book in his hands argued otherwise.

  He walked without destination, each step carrying him farther from familiar paths. He didn’t count the distance, only surrendered to the pull that drew him inexorably toward the city’s edge.

  In the distance, the flickering glow of carnival lights painted illusions of warmth against the encroaching dark, promising distractions and momentary joys to those who sought them.

  Jace ignored them, his attention captured by the object that had chosen him as surely as he had chosen it.

  He turned to the book, fingers tracing its worn edges with a reverence born of instinct rather than understanding.

  Sanctuary. He needed somewhere the shadows wouldn’t betray him, where eyes couldn’t follow and ears couldn’t listen. Somewhere safe. Somewhere alone.