Today was exhausting.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
There is a difference.
Physical exhaustion usually disappears after sleep.
I suspect this one will not.
This morning Ryn finally explained why we came to Vaultreach.
Specifically—
why we came here instead of immediately continuing toward Dunskar.
For some reason, I had assumed the plan involved adventure.
Exploration.
Danger.
Perhaps even a dramatic descent into the Heartspike Catacombs.
I blame books.
Books create unrealistic expectations.
The actual plan was considerably less heroic.
Apparently whenever Ryn visits Vaultreach, she confiscates artifacts from Old Shard before city officials confiscate the entire building.
This has been happening for years.
The purpose is simple.
If enough inventory leaves the shop, Old Shard can continue pretending he operates a business.
If not—
eventually someone notices he has been collecting artifacts instead of selling them.
And then problems occur.
I am beginning to suspect Ryn spends a significant portion of her life solving problems created by other people.
Most of them named Roderick.
Or Eldrin.
We returned to the shop shortly after breakfast.
Old Shard greeted Ryn enthusiastically.
And received a kick.
As usual.
Then he greeted me.
"Good morning, Mama."
He received a second kick.
As usual.
Then Spathian walked inside.
Old Shard glanced at him.
"Oh."
A pause.
"The idiot."
"Hello."
Spathian smiled.
"Hello."
I still do not understand how they became friends overnight.
Some mysteries should perhaps remain unsolved.
After that, everyone scattered naturally.
Ryn disappeared into the warehouse.
Spathian somehow discovered an artifact vaguely resembling a spoon.
Then vanished emotionally.
And I became trapped beside Old Shard.
Not unwillingly.
Mostly.
The first thing he requested was my Infinity Bag.
Again.
This time I surrendered it immediately.
Resistance seemed pointless.
Old Shard examined it carefully.
Then frowned.
Then examined it again.
Then frowned harder.
Eventually he looked at me.
"Have you ever stored food inside this?"
I thought for a moment.
Years ago.
Perhaps.
After several minutes I finally remembered.
An apple.
One apple.
A long time ago.
Old Shard pointed dramatically.
"Take it out."
So I did.
The apple emerged.
Fresh.
Perfect.
Completely unchanged.
I stared at it.
Then at the bag.
Then at the apple again.
Old Shard looked genuinely emotional.
Almost devastated.
"Normal magic bags are expensive."
His voice sounded strained.
"Very expensive."
A pause.
"That thing distorts time."
I blinked.
The apple remained an apple.
The bag remained a bag.
My understanding remained unchanged.
Eventually I decided not to think about it.
This strategy has served me surprisingly well throughout my travels.
Unfortunately things became worse after I showed him my coat.
And then my quill.
Old Shard nearly suffered a medical emergency.
Afterward he became dramatically more cooperative.
Particularly while holding the Infinity Bag.
At one point he was gently stroking it.
Like a cat.
Or perhaps a sacred relic.
Possibly both.
Eventually our conversation drifted toward Caravan Master.
I asked whether they truly traveled together.
Old Shard immediately made a face.
"I refuse to call that man a friend."
This was unexpected.
"Sondre only understands profit."
The disgust in his voice was remarkable.
"He doesn't appreciate beauty."
"He doesn't appreciate history."
"He doesn't appreciate artifacts."
"He appreciates selling artifacts."
Apparently this has been a source of conflict for decades.
According to Old Shard, every time they discovered something incredible, Caravan Master sold it.
Every single time.
"I should have hit him with my hammer."
A pause.
"He saved my life though."
Another pause.
"Several times."
A longer pause.
"And he's annoyingly good at fighting."
The conversation ended there.
Not because Old Shard ran out of complaints.
Because he accidentally disproved most of them.
Then we reached Master Roderick.
Which was significantly worse.
According to Old Shard, Master Roderick possessed a famous nickname.
The Thousand Daggers.
I immediately assumed this was something impressive.
A legendary title.
A feared explorer.
A master combatant.
Something dramatic.
I was wrong.
The nickname existed because Master Roderick purchased every unusual dagger he encountered.
Every single one.
No matter how impractical.
No matter how expensive.
No matter how unnecessary.
"He can't even use them."
Old Shard sounded offended by this.
"If a monster appears, he runs."
I laughed so hard I nearly fell out of my chair.
Suddenly several things about Spathian made much more sense.
We continued talking for hours.
Stories appeared one after another.
Ancient Vault expeditions.
Remote ruins.
Forgotten treasures.
Apparently before Roderick Street existed—
before Caravan Master led stable caravans—
they all earned money by exploring dangerous Treasure Vaults.
Not places like Heartspike.
Worse places.
Unregulated places.
Places far from civilization.
The sort of locations that eventually become cautionary tales.
At some point Uncle Kael entered the conversation.
Old Shard described him as:
"A boar."
I laughed immediately.
The image felt strangely accurate.
"See obstacle."
"Charge obstacle."
"Repeat."
I could practically hear Ryn sighing somewhere in the distance.
By afternoon the conversation shifted again.
This time toward the shop itself.
I finally asked the obvious question.
Why keep all these artifacts?
Why refuse to sell them?
Old Shard became unusually quiet.
For a moment the humor disappeared.
Only a little.
Just enough.
Most people buy artifacts for Treasure Vaults.
Not for ordinary life.
Not for the surface.
Arcane weapons already solve most surface problems.
The artifacts that matter end up accompanying hunters underground.
Into dangerous places.
Into darkness.
Into situations where mistakes become funerals.
Then Old Shard looked toward the shelves.
Toward hundreds of artifacts.
Thousands perhaps.
And for the first time all day—
he looked tired.
"What happens if I give a sword to an archer?"
His voice was quieter now.
"What happens if I hand a spear to a swordsman?"
A pause.
"What happens if I send the wrong person into the wrong place?"
The answer felt obvious.
Suddenly I understood.
Or perhaps understood a little.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But enough.
To Old Shard, artifacts were not merchandise.
They were responsibilities.
Stories waiting for the correct ending.
Not the most profitable ending.
The correct one.
For a moment I found that strangely beautiful.
A little foolish.
But beautiful.
Then Ryn appeared behind him.
Silent.
Efficient.
Terrifying.
Old Shard froze immediately.
Ryn smiled.
Which somehow made the situation worse.
"Try that excuse again."
Her voice remained perfectly calm.
"I'll sell everything in the back."
Silence.
Complete silence.
Old Shard looked like a man staring directly at death.
I suspect he may fear Ryn more than Caravan Master.
Which is honestly understandable.
The day ended with Ryn leaving the warehouse carrying enough artifacts to destabilize Old Shard emotionally.
Old Shard followed her outside.
Begging.
Negotiating.
Pleading.
At one point I believe he offered legal ownership of his soul.
Ryn remained unmoved.
Meanwhile Spathian announced he would be staying overnight.
Apparently he found something interesting.
This statement has never once produced reassuring results.
As I write this, I find myself thinking about Old Shard.
He insists he is not a collector.
Not really.
Not exactly.
But watching him today reminded me of something.
Some people preserve stories with books.
Some preserve them with journals.
Some preserve them with memories.
And some preserve them by refusing to let go of objects long after everyone else would have sold them.
I suspect Ryn is correct.
Old Shard should probably sell more artifacts.
I also suspect he never will.
And strangely—
I think the world may be slightly better because of that.
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