Chương 74: Chapter 71 – First Losses

A week. No one had asked him about anything to do with running the brewery in a week. Alric was sitting in his office with his feet on the desk. Beside him lay a ledger of figures he already knew, the sort that no longer needed checking so much as occasional reassurance. Somewhere beyond the door, the boiler cycled, the sound steady and unremarkable, like a reminder that at least one part of the building still required him to exist. At least as long as he had magic.

Seren handled everything to do with schedules and fermentation. Vale handled all orders and collections. Mara and Hal handled production. He had set out to build it this way, he knew that. He had been trying to solve problems, and now it had worked too well. The only thing he did daily was charge the station with mana, a task that involved standing still and being useful for approximately one moment. He let out a long sigh.

The chair creaked faintly as he shifted, protesting the indignity of supporting someone who was clearly not going to get up anytime soon. A cup of tea sat nearby, untouched. Since having it at Moreen's, Seren had quietly procured some, and now he was getting it every day, as if the habit might someday become a personality. His thoughts turned to the berry wine. He'd expected to run it as an operation, but the staff had shut that down. Their reasons were good ones, he knew. Still, he didn't like it.

All he did now for that part of the operation was keep the berries in his item box to stop them aging, and even that was only for the smaller quantities, which felt like being assigned the world's most specialised pantry duty.

"I haven't checked on that," he realised. It was early, but he might as well look at the berry wine barrels. Resolved to do something, anything, he stretched as he stood and moved out through the warehouse toward the cellar. A cask was rolled somewhere behind him, the dull thud echoing once before fading, the sound of work continuing perfectly well without commentary. As he passed, conversations paused, then picked up again, the brief silence carrying the unmistakable tone of polite surprise.

He followed the ramp down. The cellar was cool, quiet, and controlled. Moisture clung to the stone near the floor, ignoring all efforts to be persuaded otherwise. Barrels were racked neatly. Fourteen had been made so far. He decided he would test the first four strawberry wines at least. They were still young, he knew, but it was something, and something was better than nothing. He tried to turn the first barrel to reach the bung and found he lacked the strength.

The wood resisted, unmoved, as if unimpressed by ambition alone. With a sigh, he used his item box to reposition it so he could work without spilling wine everywhere, which felt like cheating but was technically efficiency. He poured a small measure from the first barrel and drank it. It tasted of strawberries in the same way a memory does. Recognisable, but lacking substance.

The fruit arrived first, then retreated almost immediately, leaving behind a thin, slightly sour finish Clean enough, nothing obviously wrong with it. The second was different, still good, a little sharper on the tongue, the fruit standing out more before dropping away. He tried the third and stopped. This one was better. Fuller, steadier, the flavour actually staying with him for a moment instead of vanishing, as if it had briefly considered commitment. The fourth confirmed the problem. Thin.

The strawberry was there, but only briefly, as if it had changed its mind halfway through.

"Why?" Alric frowned at the barrels.

"Something's off," he muttered.

"Same process, different result… something in the inputs." He paused.

"… berry strange." The cellar felt more silent than normal for a moment, as if it too was judging Alric for terrible puns. Then a small surge of excitement that followed surprised him. This was a problem that actually needed him. He straightened, listening to the faint drip of condensation somewhere along the wall, which sounded like the cellar counting time, and looked at the four barrels again. The process had been the same. Press, pasteurise, cool, pitch, cellared. The barrels, maybe? He shook his head.

Too soon. That only left the berries. Time for a tasting. He glanced at the ramp leading back up, which waited patiently, offering neither encouragement nor judgement. Alric gathered the relevant staff in the cellar and poured out measures for everyone. With him were Mara, Hal, Stromni, and Seren. The space filled with the scrape of boots and the low murmur of movement as they took positions near the racks, each finding a spot that suggested long familiarity with both the space and each other.

Somehow, Seren looked relieved when she arrived, which didn't make much sense to him.

"Alright. This has gone a bit strange. I'll let you taste first, then we'll talk about it." Alric began pouring and passing the cups. Liquid sloshed softly as he worked, the sound repeating itself with comforting predictability. Seren tried to stop him, but he waved it off. The bungs were hard to reach, and the cellar had already made its opinion on that clear. They were surprised by how good the first one was. No one remarked on the second, which struck Alric as odd.

The third drew praise from everyone, especially Stromni, who clearly wanted it, possibly immediately. Then came the fourth. Everyone sipped and frowned. No one spoke for a moment, the silence doing more work than any tasting note ever could.

"Uh… did I mess up?" Mara asked, glancing around nervously. Alric blinked.

"No. This is a problem with the berries themselves." Mara let out a deep breath. The tension in her shoulders eased, retreating like something that had realised it wasn't needed here after all. Everyone glanced at her. Hal put a hand on her shoulder and she nodded at him. Alric realised, a little late, that Mara had thought this meeting meant she'd done something wrong. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"No, Mara. If anything, you've done really well. This third barrel is frankly excellent, better than I expected. Not all of the berries are good, and we have no way of knowing in advance," he added, managing what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Mara nodded and stood a little straighter.

"Did we record where the berries came from?" Seren asked, still holding her cup and sipping slowly, as if hoping it might change its mind. Alric shook his head. The quiet sigh he got in response hung in the air, briefly, before deciding it had made its point.

"If we had recorded it, what would that change? You don't get a second berry harvest," Alric said, earning a blink from Seren.

"But then we'd know who to order from next time?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. Alric shook his head again.

"Berries aren't farmed. They're wild. The quality comes down to rainfall, season, and timing."

"How the hell do you know that?" Hal asked, eyebrows raised.

"Now, now. You lot are sure testy today," Stromni said. He shifted his weight against a rack, wood creaking faintly in agreement.

"Hal, I've been asking myself that question since I met him. You know as much as I do. I reckon he was raised by woodland fairies that really like copper. Anyone got a better idea?" The dwarf grinned around the room and earned a few laughs.

"I'm sorry, Mister Alric, I..." Seren began.

"No need, Seren. I'm sorry too. The heat makes us all irritable," Alric said.

"This isn't anyone's fault." He tapped the fourth barrel. The sound was hollow, unconvincing.

"This one becomes weak vinegar. I'm not even sure it'll be good at that."

"As for the rest, we'll blend them and see if we can hide the flaws. If that doesn't work, we'll turn them into hydromel."

"Hide Rommel?" Seren asked, eyes wide.

"It's mead with fruit in it," Alric said.

"See? Woodland fairies. Only thing that makes sense," Stromni added, which finally got a smile.

"Alright. I'd like to manage this," Seren said.

"When it comes to honey, I'll be involved," Alric said. She gave him a small, reluctant nod.

"We're not going to age this. I don't see the point. We'll sell it as is." He took a breath. The cellar felt smaller with everyone in it, as cellars often did once decisions were made.

"Next thing. While I have you all here. We're not making cider this year."

"What? Why? Didn't it make us a lot of money last year?" Hal asked.

"It did. But we have more coin than we need," Alric said, earning a grumble from Stromni, "and it nearly sank a bunch of taverns and inns." He leaned against a wooden strut, the beam solid at his back, as if quietly supporting the argument.

"It's not much of a festival if it's just one cider, is it?" Hal considered that, then shrugged and nodded. The others followed.

"Instead, we're making wine. I got a letter from Moreen. He's secured some grapes for us." That earned a round of blinks.

"Ain't that a noble drink?" Stromni asked.

"Normally. Which tells me that if normal people can try it, they probably will. If not, we export it far away. Wine keeps for years, so I'm not worried," Alric said, waving the concern aside as if time itself were an obedient thing.

"Is it true?!" came an overly enthusiastic voice. The carter was working the docks today. Thankfully the roads here were fairly flat, which was more than could be said for most things. He leaned back from pushing the cask load, boots scraping as the cart rolled to a stop. The wheels settled unevenly against the stones, as carts were inclined to do when given the opportunity. He rested his hands on the handle for a moment and breathed out.

"Aye. It's true," he said.

"He ain't makin' cider this year." The tavern keeper stood a little too close, eyes bright, hands clenched at his sides as if he might grab the cart and shake it until certainty fell out.

"You swear?" The carter nodded, already tired of the question.

"Says he ain't tryin' to take the festival away," he added, the words delivered with the careful tone of someone repeating them for the third or fourth time that morning, possibly to himself as well. The tavern keeper blinked once. Then he laughed, sharp and surprised, and did a small, awkward step that might have been a jig if anyone had been watching closely enough.

"That's… that's decent of him," he said.

"Real decent." He turned and shouted back through his open door.

"Marta! Apples. We need apples. Get word to your brother, too. Tell him now." Someone inside asked a question. The tavern keeper waved it away without looking back, the sort of gesture that suggested plans were already well ahead of explanations. The carter watched him go, then reached down and adjusted the rope securing the casks. The fibres bit into his palm as he pulled, an entirely separate problem that required immediate attention.

Another man further along the quay had paused, pretending to check his own cart while listening, which was a common enough pastime. The carter put his shoulder back into the cart and started it rolling again. The load creaked as it moved, sounding faintly resigned. Behind him, the tavern keeper was already arguing about prices, voice raised, hopeful in a way the carter hadn't heard in a while. Vale leaned into the office, one hand braced against the doorframe.

"What were you thinking?" he asked. Alric stopped.

"About what?"

"Walking around the city like that," Vale said.

"Casually. With Seren." Alric frowned.

"We were at Moreen's. Then the docks. It wasn't—" He trailed off.

"What's wrong?" Vale closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The doorframe creaked softly as his weight shifted, as if bracing itself for numbers.

"We are on track to clear close to thirteen gold this month." Alric blinked.

"That much?"

"Yes," Vale said.

"In cash. Regularly. Not tied up in wagons, or promises, or favours. Every time Hal tips a pot you make over six silver." He stepped into the office, gesturing absently as he spoke. Papers on the desk rustled from the movement, eager to be involved.

"A small baron can beat that on a good month but not year round like you do." Alric leaned back against the chair, the wood cool through his shirt, thinking.

"You can't just wander the city without guards," Vale said calmly.

"A baron or merchant always move around with guards, it's part of the point to have people take you seriously."

"I—" Alric said, reflexively. Vale nodded.

"Everyone knows you're a mage. That isn't the point." He folded his hands behind his back.

"You don't need to lose a fight. You need one bad moment. Someone grabbing Seren. Someone deciding you're easier to deal with when you're bleeding. A shove in a narrow alley. Arrow from a rooftop." Alric said nothing.

"You need guards," Vale continued.

"At least two. Compared to what you earn, it's nothing." He paused, then added more quietly, "Being unobtrusive stopped being protection some time ago. I'm sending a letter to the adventurers now." After that, he left. His footsteps faded down the corridor, doing what footsteps did best. Alric realised that through the whole exchange, he had barely said a thing. Pavise reviewed the letter. Alric needed guards, but anyone could tell that.

He'd send some of the better adventurers he had, the kind who listened before swinging. The sad news in the letter was no cider this year. He pouted. The effect was spoiled by his sheer size, which made pouting look more like a geological event. Still, the adventurers had a dedicated festival this year. Pavise wasn't sure he'd recovered from that, let alone the guild itself. He put the letter down and peered out the window. Somewhere below, the street carried on, stubbornly unconcerned.

Even though he was alone, he shrugged. Alric sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He'd overheard a conversation earlier. Henry was helping the carters load the cart. The carters joking as they always did. Laughing about how many times they'd been stopped, how many people had run up to them just to ask the same thing again and again. No cider this year? Really? You're sure? He hadn't been there, but he didn't need to be. The exchange was already complete in his head. He hadn't announced anything.

He hadn't negotiated or explained himself. He hadn't even realised the decision was worth remarking on. And yet it had spread. Not as an argument or a warning, but as relief. As permission. By refusing to make cider, he hadn't competed with anyone. He hadn't dominated the season or forced a response. There was no pressure to push back against, no reason to wait and see what he would do next. The absence had been enough. That was the part he kept turning over. He hadn't lost control.

He had let it diffuse outward, quietly, until everyone else felt free to move again. The loss wasn't the cider. By not making it, he had given everyone else room to act. And in doing so, he saw it clearly at last. He had become what he hated in his first life. The happiest he'd been in his previous life was brewing with his university buddies. He had taken that away from everyone else. He had killed craft.