CHAPTER 163: REMAINED

Ameth’s face remained a mask, but her posture shifted—a subtle tightening of her shoulders, a faint lean forward, as if the words had hooked her despite herself.

"First," Lor intoned, his glowing gaze sweeping the cart, "do not place fresh vegetables beside those tainted by rot. Decay is a contagion, swift and merciless. One spoiled potato will ruin ten before the day’s end. Separate them. Always."

He moved to the side of the cart, his fingers hovering just above the vegetables, tracing unseen lines.

"Second—your magic. The frost you wield is not only a weapon but a shield. Use it to preserve your stock. Freeze them before rot takes hold, but thaw only what you will sell that day—not the night before, not at dawn. That is when decay claims its due."

Ameth listened, her silence a canvas for his words, her eyes fixed on the cart as if seeing it anew.

"Third—rotate your stock. Sell the oldest first. Do not hide it at the back to mask its age. Place it front and center, priced to move. A small loss in coin is better than a total loss in weight."

His voice deepened, vibrating faintly in the shed’s close air. "Fourth—shield your goods from the sun’s heat. A damp, cool cloth laid lightly over the top will guard them. The sun is your enemy, more than the frost of night."

He stepped back, his glowing eyes locking onto hers. "Fifth—never trust the market’s pace. You do not wait for buyers; you create them. Stand before your cart, speak of the sweetness of your carrots, the crispness of your cucumbers, the dawn they were plucked from the earth. Your tongue is as vital as your frost."

The silver glow flared briefly, then softened, his eyes returning to their normal shade as his breathing steadied. His voice slipped back to its usual cadence, tinged with a faint rasp of exertion. "Do these, and your losses will halve within a week and you will see hefty profits."

The shed felt heavier, as if the words had seeped into the wood, the air, the very earth beneath their feet.

Ameth didn’t thank him.

She gave only a short, sharp nod, her gaze lingering on the cart with a new intensity—a quiet reassessment, like a general studying a battlefield.

"That’s the Light’s guidance to you. What you do with it," he added, his voice carrying a hint of challenge, "is on you."

Ameth stood framed in the shed’s doorway, her silhouette sharp against the dim interior, her icy blue eyes locked on Lor as the silver glow faded from his gaze.

The air still hummed with the weight of the ritual, the scent of damp earth and spiced oil lingering like a ghost.

Her ponytail caught a stray beam of sunlight, glinting as she shifted, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, accentuating the curve of her breasts beneath the plain tunic.

Her voice sliced through the stillness, cold and precise.

"Your methods better work, Lor. If they don’t..." She let the words hang, unfinished, but the pause was a blade in itself, sharp with unspoken threats—each one promising a reckoning if he failed her. "...you’ll wish you’d never stepped into my life."

Lor raised both hands in a playful gesture of surrender, his grin easy but edged with confidence. "I’m innocent here. If you’re not satisfied, you can take it up with the Light."

Her lip curled, a flicker of something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like a challenge. "The Light and you are the same."

He shook his head, eyes narrowing to slits, his expression softening into something almost reverent, though a spark of mischief lingered. "Not at all. The Guiding Light is... unique. It’s my rare bloodline ability. It sees further than either of us, carries knowledge older than any dusty tome you’ve skimmed at the academy. You’d be wise not to underestimate it."

Ameth’s arms tightened, the fabric of her tunic pulling taut, but she didn’t interrupt, her silence a grudging invitation for him to continue.

"If you ever want to expand your business," Lor went on, his voice dropping low, pulling her in like a tide, "bigger profits, wider reach, tighter control over your stock or for any guidance you might need—you can come to me. I’ll speak with the Light again for you."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, his gaze holding hers.

"But understand this, the bigger the request, the steeper the ritual’s price."

Her eyes narrowed to icy points, glinting with a hardness that cut through the shed’s dim light.

"I know about it," she said, her voice low and harsh, heavy with a knowledge that wasn’t just gossip.

It was the kind of certainty born from observation, from piecing together whispers and shadows at the academy, even if she’d never deigned to acknowledge him there.

She’d been watching.

Lor let a faint smirk curl his lips, but he held his tongue, letting her words linger like a challenge unmet.

He knew better than to push too hard—not yet.

She turned away first, her ponytail swaying as she strode back into the cottage without a glance, no offer of tea, water, or even a curt farewell.

The door closed behind her with a soft thud, sealing her world away from his.

Lor stepped out into the open air, the narrow path crunching under his boots as sunlight splintered through the sagging eaves overhead.

The faint scent of greens and damp earth clung to him, mingling with the spiced oil still ghosting his skin. His smile widened, sharp and satisfied.

The Light had spun a new thread, and Ameth, the expressionless sexy blonde, was now tangled in it.

He could feel the pull, the potential, like a current ready to be harnessed.

He started down the path, the city’s hum growing louder as he left the quiet of her cottage behind.

Nellie was next—sweet, shy Nellie, with her trembling smiles and sunlit room, waiting for his guidance.