CHAPTER 68: 68: THE STRANGER RETURNS X

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John pretended to be a helper. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he is the true owner of Fizz holdings.

Moran’s gaze shifted to John, lingering a moment too long. His eyes narrowed slightly, but the expression smoothed away before it could be called suspicion.

"John," he said, extending a hand.

John took it with a steady grip. "Moran. Ask me anything you want to know."

"Straight to business, I like that," Moran said, though his eyes flicked once more over John’s face in a way that made something cold stir in John’s stomach.

He knew that look. The flicker of recognition someone couldn’t quite place. "Let’s see the goods first," Moran said.

Inside the forge, the workers had laid out the rune engraved ore, several new common blades, and the demo Spitter Mk.1 prototype on the long table. Moran walked the length of it slowly, fingertips brushing over the work as his assistant scribbled notes.

"This engraving," Moran said, tapping a finger against one of the ore pieces, "this isn’t standard East Hollow local work. Too clean. Who’s your designer and enchanter?"

"Trade secret," Gael said smoothly.

Fizz hovered over the Spitter Mk.1, puffing his chest. "That one’s my favorite. Fires an iron ball faster than a hungry squirrel stealing bread."

"Oh my... you got a rare spirit." Moran arched a brow. "Does it work?"

"It’s my buddy Fizz." John stepped forward saying, "About the prototype, It works. It just needs refined crystal feed. It eats through the cheap ones too fast. Let’s show you a demo."

After the demo.

Moran’s eyes slid to him again, measuring. "That’s a problem for a buyer with deep pockets, not for me. I can’t burn money. I’ll take it under consideration."

They spent the next hour discussing prices, quantities, and delivery terms on the ore and common knives. Moran was a skilled negotiator. He was polite, but persistent, and always angling for a fraction more advantage. John held firm where it mattered, letting Gael handle the small concessions that kept the mood cordial.

By the time they stepped back outside, the deals were set: half the rune engraved ore sold, all the common dagger, two blades commissioned for custom order, and a tentative agreement to revisit the Spitter once the feed issue was solved. He will buy it if it’s cheap to use.

As Moran climbed back onto his wagon, he glanced at John one last time. "You’ve got a head for business. Not common in... certain backgrounds."

John’s eyes didn’t change. "Backgrounds don’t matter. Only results matter."

For the briefest moment, Moran’s gaze sharpened, like a knife testing the edge of a memory. Then he smiled and tipped his hat. "We’ll be in touch, Gael."

The wagons rolled away, and John watched them until the blue paint disappeared around the bend.

Fizz floated into his line of sight. "Okay, I don’t like him."

"Why?" John asked.

Fizz shrugged. "He smells like paperwork and secrets. Also, he looked at you like he was trying to remember where he’d seen you before. Did he see you before?"

John didn’t answer. His mind was already elsewhere, turning over the look in Moran’s eyes, the way it had lingered.

If Moran knew anything about the White household, he’d have to be careful. But nobody knows his origin.

But he must be very careful.

Gael clapped a hand on his shoulder, breaking the thought. "Good work today. Those sales will keep the forge busy for a month, maybe more."

John nodded. "I’ll need a part of the profit set aside. I’ve got plans for a lab — full mana field setup, rune stabilizers, the works."

Gael’s grin was approving. "Now you’re talking like a man building something that lasts."

Fizz zipped between them, grinning. "Speaking of lasting things, I’ve decided we need a company banner. Big, bold, with a picture of me on it."

"No," John said.

"We’ll discuss it," Fizz replied confidently, then darted out of reach before John could swat him.

The wagons were only dust at the bend of the road when the village swallowed its noise again. Evening came on with the steady certainty of a craftsman who knows his work. Blue pressed down from the sky. Smoke lines thinned and went straight. Someone in the lane sang a work song under their breath and missed every other note. It sounded honest.

Gael’s boys cleared the tables and racked the blades. Hammers found their hooks. Tongs settled in their rows like geese on a pond. The forge was a tidy animal again, big and warm and patient.

John stayed out in the yard until the people were gone from sight. He listened to the last wheel rattle fade into gravel. He tasted dust when he breathed in and copper when he breathed out. The copper had nothing to do with air. It was memory, and he was learning again that memory did not care for seasons.

Fizz drifted down to shoulder height and bumped him with a little head that pretended it was antlered.

"Do you want me to insult him for an hour," Fizz said. "I have a list of merchant jokes that are very offensive and very accurate. I can start with his coat. It fits like a smug thought."

John did not answer that. He watched the road for a long heartbeat more, then turned back toward the forge. "Inside. We have to count inventory again. I do not trust the first count when a new deal is fresh."

Fizz saluted. "Inventory. One of my second favorite kinds of counting."

"What is your first?" John asked. "How many are there?"

"Counting pancakes, dead mushrooms and money while I hum heroic music," Fizz said.

They walked in. Heat took the chill from John’s sleeves the moment he crossed the threshold. Gael was speaking to Sera near the quenching trough. The glow of the coals caught the edge of her hair and turned it into a thin thread of winter sun.

She was busy with her work the entire day. She came to ask about the deal after the merchant left.