Chapter Sixty-Six: The Iron Jester

  By the time Jace reached the market, his mind was already calculating. Every coin spent, every upgrade planned. The leather creaked with each step, hugging him like a second skin, but he knew he wasn’t done. He needed a weapon. Something that fit his new edge.

  Twig had recommended a friend, though not without hesitation. “Armor? Sure, I’m your guy,” he had said, arms crossed like he was guarding a fortress. Then, after a pause, he added, “But for weapons… you’ll want Zeke at The Iron Jester.”

  Jace raised an eyebrow. “Iron Jester?”

  Twig scratched the back of his neck, glancing off to the side as if debating how much to say. “Yeah, listen, Zeke’s a little... well, he’s a good guy, really.” Twig sighed, clearly aware of what Jace was in for.

  Twig chuckled, pulling out a scrap of paper and he scribbled something quickly before handing it to Jace. “Here. This’ll help. Just give him this, and maybe he won’t bite your head off.”

  Jace eyed the note suspiciously. “What’s it say?”

  “Nothing that’ll make sense to you,” Twig replied with a smirk. “But trust me—it’ll make Zeke a little more... agreeable.”

  The shop sat at the far edge of the district, wedged between a potion vendor and a place selling enchanted socks (which Jace had every intention of investigating another time). Above the door hung a rusted iron mask—half sneering grin, half grimace. Welcome to The Iron Jester, the sign seemed to say. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

  Inside, the place was a mess of mismatched weapons. Swords, daggers, axes, things Jace couldn’t even name were strewn about like someone had tried to organize a brawl and gave up halfway through.

  Zeke stood behind the counter—a short, stocky guy with arms thick enough to wrestle bears. His tattoos looked like they’d been drawn by a drunk artist, but somehow, they fit. His beard was a wild, tangled mess, bits of metal braided into it like he’d just come from a war party. He looked up, and Jace felt a wall of irritation slam into him. The guy radiated “don’t bother me” vibes.

  Jace cleared his throat. “Uh, excuse me—“

  “Busy. Booked up. Not taking any more orders.” Zeke’s tone was flat, like he was swatting away a fly without bothering to look up.

  “It’s just- I was told to come here,” Jace started.

  “I said, piss off!” the man growled.

  Jace fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the note Twig had given him. “Twig said to give you this.”

  Zeke snatched it up, grumbling under his breath as he scanned the scribbled writing. At first, his eyes narrowed, but then his expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. The scowl softened—just a fraction—and Jace swore he saw the corner of Zeke’s mouth twitch.

  “Twig, huh? Why didn’t you say so?” Zeke muttered, the roughness in his voice losing just a touch of its bite. He crumpled the note, tossing it onto the counter with a grunt. “Guess I owe him a few. Fine. Come on then, let’s get you sorted out. You know your build?”

  Jace blinked. “My... build?”

  Zeke shook his head. “Yeah, your build. What you fight with. You got stats, you got skills—what’s the weapon?”

  “Right, uh…” Jace glanced around the chaotic shop. “I’m thinking something light, but solid. Maybe a cleric’s rod?”

  Zeke snorted, eyeing him like he’d just suggested using a spoon in a sword fight. “Cleric’s rod? Yeah, no. You don’t strike me as the holy type.”

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  Jace wasn’t sure how to take that. He was still a cleric—or something like it—but everything felt... different. There was a new lightness to him, as if his aether had shifted within him, traded for something more nimble, more primal. Maybe his body had always been built for speed rather than sacred strength, but now it seemed clearer than ever.

  Zeke was already rummaging through the clutter, tossing aside weapons like they were junk. “Here,” Zeke grunted, handing him a blade that gleamed faintly in the dim light. “Try this. Short sword, light but balanced. Solid hit.”

  Jace took it, giving the weapon a test swing. It felt good in his hand, but not right. He shook his head. “Not quite.”

  Zeke rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he shoved a double-edged axe at him. “What about this?”

  Jace hefted the axe, but the weight was all wrong. Too bulky. He handed it back, and Zeke grunted again, clearly less patient this time. “Fine. We’ll figure it out.”

  For the next few minutes, Jace cycled through weapons—daggers, staffs, even a pair of spiked gauntlets that Zeke claimed were “great for crowd control.” But nothing clicked.

  Finally, after what felt like an hour of trial and error, Jace spotted something on the back wall. A slender blade with intricate designs running along the hilt. He picked it up. The weight was perfect, like it was made for him.

  Zeke noticed the look in Jace’s eyes and nodded. “There it is. Should’ve known.”

  He held up a sword—dark, forged from obsidian-black metal that seemed to drink in the dim light of the shop. The blade was double-edged, slightly curved, and honed so sharp Jace could almost hear it slice through the air. It wasn’t huge, but it had a presence. A weight. Like it had seen battles long before Jace ever laid eyes on it.

  The hilt was wrapped in deep crimson leather, soft to the touch, but firm enough for a solid grip. Intricate silver filigree spiraled along the handle, depicting scenes of ancient wars and lost souls etched into the metal.

  Zeke’s grin widened as he handed it over. “This beauty’s got history, kid. Feel that weight? It’s older than you and me put together.”

  Jace took the sword, and immediately, it felt right. Solid, balanced. The kind of weapon that wasn’t just meant to be swung—it was meant to be wielded.

  “This is…” Jace trailed off, running a finger along the blade. The craftsmanship was ridiculous—perfect. He could practically feel the souls of warriors who had once held it.

  “Yeah, I know,” Zeke said, puffing out his chest. “She’s a xiphos—old-school, Greek infantry style. Don’t let the size fool ya. That thing’ll cut through anything—armor, bone, you name it. Her name is Song.”

  Jace gave it a quick swing, the blade whispering through the air. “I’ll take it.”

  Zeke clapped him on the back with enough force to nearly knock him over. “Good choice, kid.”

  Before Jace left, curiosity pulled at him like an itch he couldn’t ignore. He turned back, clearing his throat. “So… what was in the note?”

  Zeke didn’t look up, just kept sorting through a rack of blades, his rough hands moving with ease. A low chuckle escaped him, gravelly and deep. “Knew you’d ask.”

  Jace waited, unsure if he was supposed to push. Zeke finally glanced up, a smirk dancing at the edge of his lips, eyes gleaming like he was already in on the punchline.

  “It was about her,” Zeke said, leaning on the counter, arms crossing like he was settling in for a story. “Years ago, Twig and I were scraping by, no real business to speak of. And there was this woman—ran a shop down the way. Tough. Took pity on us when no one else would. Let us set up next to her. She had a mean sense of humor too. Loved messing with Twig.”

  Zeke’s lips barely twitched, like a smile was too much effort. “The note? Just Twig reminding me of one of her favorite jokes. ‘Puppy.’ She always called me a lost puppy with big muscles.” He rolled his eyes. “Said it every time I got pissed at a customer.”

  Jace blinked. “That’s it? A joke?”

  Zeke shrugged, turning back to his work. “More than a joke. It’s a reminder. She helped us when we were down, and Twig’s saying it’s time to do the same.” He glanced at Jace, his tone softening just enough to not be insulting. “So, kid, consider yourself lucky.”

  Jace opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed useless. Kindness wasn’t something he expected, especially from guys like Zeke and Twig.

  As he was about to leave, he threw out one last question. “So… why ‘The Iron Jester’?”

  Zeke’s face hardened, like a switch had flipped. For a second, Jace thought he’d screwed up. Then Zeke’s deadpan voice cut through the air. “Because of my sense of humor. What? You don’t think I’m funny?”

  Jace felt the temperature drop about ten degrees. “Uh… no, no. Yeah. You are funny. Very funny. Hilarious even.”

  Zeke grunted, not even bothering to look up. “Thought so.”

  Jace adjusted the straps on his armor, feeling the weight of the xiphos at his side. As the noise of the marketplace crept through the door, he stepped out, the sword feeling more like a part of him than it had before.

  Vendors were shouting, adventurers haggling, the usual chaos. And Jace—well, Jace felt ready. Ready for whatever insane thing the world was about to throw at him.

  Or, at the very least, ready enough to not die before Twig’s investment paid off.