…

  Injuries? A magical contract exploded on me. Fiona woke to consciousness—and saw nothing. Nothing, except for a strange set of messages right in front of her face.

  Um…hi? Fiona looked around, but she couldn’t. A trickle of worry began to creep through her mind. What is going on?

  Hi, floaty voice in my head, this is Fiona Swiftheart, and she is currently occupied by an induced coma from an exploding magical contract. Wait. I think that’s what happened. Fiona couldn’t open her eyes, and the whole world was black. Not the black because she couldn’t open her eyes, but as if her vision had ceased to be. She couldn’t move her head. She couldn’t move her arms—wait, where were her arms?

  Or legs? Or the rest of her lithe elven body? Oh no. I’m dead. Again. This is purgatory. Barry got me.

  If she had a face, she’d roll her eyes. I’m going to need a little more detail than that. If she had hands–or a body, for that matter–it would be lurching toward that beardless, pasty-faced prodigy of hereditary monarchy. Instead of those weird messages, the voice of a young female was audible in her mind, now.

  Hmm. Wait…you’re not from here? You're not a native of Cepalune? Your soul is...different.

  Nah, I’m a visitor. From a world that probably, in all likelihood, has ceased to exist. Where’s my body?

  Oh, don’t worry about that. Fiona, this is all perfectly normal! Well, normal as we can get. Someone brought you here but...I know nothing about why. I have my guesses--oh. Oh goodness.

  Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? Fiona asked wearily. She tried to fix her gaze in another direction, but those words kept following her. It was like YouTube ads you couldn’t skip. Or those beyond-frustrating eight million ads between her, and the perfect chocolate chip cupcake recipe. Plus a five thousand word essay on how the recipe creator was inspired by their grandmother.

  She just wanted the damn cupcake! And an explanation for the hallucinations inside her head.

  Okay, I can hear some strife. A little aggrievement. I understand. First time?

  First time for what, exactly? Fiona still couldn’t ‘look’ at anything that wasn’t directly in front of her. Get that Clarke guy back, this is his fault! He didn’t even sterilize that quill! Who does that, who signs a contract in blood?! It’s so unsanitary!

  He administers a desk! He’s hardly an administrator! Seriously, bring me back into the light, you Commodore 64 clone! That’s weird, this text looks like a DOS prompt. Suddenly, all the nightmares of trying to enter command prompts that she never memorized came back to haunt her, and she wanted to groan–but had no lips. The female voice cropped up again. It was a lot more assuring than a wall of text.

  Let’s get back on track, Fiona. Did you sign a contract for a new class?

  The thought put Fiona back into focus, and she mulled her response. Okay, here’s what happened. I went to sign up for a business license. I signed a contract. Then the contract zapped me.

  Yes, but what did you pick as your class, Fiona?

  Oh, yes! I picked the Merchant…of Fortune?

  ...

  Great. Another one with a flair for drama. I need to noodle on this one for a minute.

  What do you mean, another one?! That had to be something telling, even if she didn't grasp the what just now.

  …

  Uh, there’s a problem. You never had a destined class. How did that happen?

  Pretend for a moment, I don’t know what a class is, in the context of Cepalune. Possibly brought on by a bit of naivety and being distracted by getting a second shot of life. Clarke mentioned Destined classes.

  So, everyone born, or brought to Cepalune, acquires a class when they turn eighteen. These classes are our inherent power, Fiona. You may start with one, but your life isn’t boxed in by one. They grant you powers, depending on your vocation in life. From a mere farmer to a mage, to being a leader of whole nations.

  Yep. That’s exactly what I’m saying. If I was supposed to get one, no one told me! I’m beginning to worry I might have broken the fundamental order of the world. I didn’t plan for that!

  I believe you when you say that. So, you didn’t have a destined class! This means that whatever you wrote, is now the destined class! Which is, apparently, Merchant of Fortune! I think this one might be unique!

  I should have picked ‘Humiliator of Beardless Rulers’. That would have solved both the Barry problem, and the Doug problem. She still didn’t know who the ‘they’ were. That worried her immensely.

  I’m sure that class would have been outright rejected. Something still isn’t right here…Fiona, I need to confirm with you your ancestry. Are you the daughter of a demon, devil, celestinian, fey, former gods, dragons, proteans, or from a species that fits into the ‘undeclared’ category?

  Uh…no? I mean, I don’t think so.

  Wonderful! Now, if you want to intuit your class abilities, most Administrators will have some periodicals. But yours is off the books, so, I don’t know what to do here! Guess we’ll just wing it!

  Listen, voiceless person, who I’m going to call Dave for unironic reasons, I know you’re not allowed to let me do it, but I’ve got places to go and Kings to throw an ironic raspberry at!

  This was Barry’s fault, she decided. He’d tricked her to become a merchant, probably knowing how stubborn she could be, and set up this poor schmuck Clarke without a clue what would happen. Was Barry a big-brain genius savant thinking ten moves ahead, to put her into a coma?

  Nah, he couldn’t be that smart. More likely, it was a coincidence. She let out a mental exhale. Okay, Dave, I need to wake up now. And make sure my body is still in one piece. Can you do that, please?

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Alright. Remember, your Destiny Class is now active. Now, I should probably throw out a hint. What you do, affects others, Fiona. Your impact on the world--how you hold yourself--will impact many. Including, some who will grow close to you.

  I’d like to start by paying off this coerced tax and not keel over and die, first off. Destiny and other crap can come later, thanks. Whatever was happening now, was important. Even if she didn’t know why, just then.

  Alright, then. Be prepared for a jarring return to wakey-wakey land. And a splitting headache.

  And...be a good example for many, if I may offer my personal preference.

  Wait. Who are you, really, though?

  Someone who tidies up messes, you could say. But in a good way--Oh wait, gotta go, might want to grab a health potion for that headache, too. Toodles!

  Fiona let out a soft sigh. This level of sass was just too much even for her. She would have also corrected Dave that ‘toodles’ was possibly the lamest farewell she’d ever heard in two lifetimes, but then a blinding light enveloped her existence. Searing pain returned to limbs that hadn’t been there a second ago, and she blinked.

  I blinked?

  The room came back into focus, and was a blurry white. But upon a second look and a feeling of something on her face, she realized it was just a piece of copier paper that Clarke had kept in his office, sitting on top of her.

  Well, that was embarrassing. She must have conked out from her experience with a wizard from…Canada, this time around. Clarke sounded Canadian. Almost. Floridian wizards were still overpowered.

  She pulled back the paper from her face, groaning from the influence of the pounding in her head, her skull feeling too small, and sat up to the sound of more fluttering paper. More parchment was filtering down, while most of the furniture was toppled or shunted away. The contract was still sitting on the desk and glowing, but not in an ominous way. More like a cool power-up kind of way.

  Then it decided it wasn’t dramatic enough for its tastes and it caught fire, and she looked on in dismay. The scroll turned into instant cinders, with little golden motes floating into the air and seemingly melting out of existence. Clarke was on the ground, under more papers and groaning. She couldn’t see if he was hurt, but the fact that he was muttering to some probable deities in a panicked voice indicated he probably was fine.

  The silver bell previously sitting on the edge of the desk finally slipped and fell to the ground, and made a deafening ding sound that irritated her ears–and the rest of her. She clutched her head and felt nauseous.

  This was the hangover to end all hangovers, with full body aches, pains, and a feeling of disorientation she couldn’t shake. She rose on wobbly legs, and shuffled through loose papers on the hardwood floor. After a second, she unburied Clarke from his current paper fort.

  “Clarke? You okay?” she asked with a hoarse voice, holding her head. Even her ears hurt. Cute ears should not hurt this much, and she winced at that giant demon in her head, roaming around with a sledgehammer between her ears, like an enthusiastic demolition crew.

  Clarke sat flat on his back, and propped himself up slowly, looking dazed. He was, fortunately, unharmed. “Miss Swiftheart? Could you explain what just happened?” he asked with a deadly calm tone, countered by the panic in his eyes. She was just not making his Lunesday at all.

  “Uh, Clarke? Before I say anything, I need you to keep a secret. Or, you know, it could be deadly for me.”

  “On the account that what just happened was both impossible, inexplicable, and unmatched by anything I have observed in my life? Then yes, I can keep a secret.” She pulled him to his feet, and he brushed himself off–and pulled another errant paper that seemed to cling to his foot. “Um, well now. You have your class, correct?”

  “Uh…how do I know that for sure?” she asked hesitantly.

  “You just think of it. I am immensely disturbed by the lack of class on your part,” he stated shakily. She might be fighting the worst magical hangover of her life, but she bore holes through his soul with her reciprocal glare.

  “I am a classy lady, Clarke,” she snarled.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he sighed and peered at the now burnt bits of paper on his desk, and groaned. “Well, that is problematic.”

  “Was that supposed to happen?” she asked and set the seat back up to a standing position so she could lean on it.

  “Nope. Not at all. I do not know what to make of a contract auto-incinerating, but I fear that someone will take an unhealthy interest in it that will likely lead to queries, dungeons, possible torture, and ignoble death. So, until I figure out what we saw, don’t tell anyone, alright? I would like to keep my job, and my head on my shoulders. Now please, let me know if your class shows up properly.”

  “How am I supposed to–” she sighed. “Look, pretend that I’m an idiot. How do you normally display your class?”

  “It’s on your wrist. But, it looks different for everyone. And I can’t see it, either, even as an administrator. Interesting. Most people have to just want to show it to someone."

  She blinked and looked down at her right wrist, which tingled with static. A slight darkening of the skin was there, and the image emerged—and the shape it took surprised her. A little ruby red jewel, in the shape of a heart, with a pair of small angel wings, now adorned her wrist. That must be quite unusual. “Should I describe it to you?”

  “Some people do, but…it may, often-times, be considered something a little more intimate to those who can see it, or want to share it.”

  “It’s a jeweled, winged heart.”

  He blinked at that. “I’ve…never heard of that before. I mean precious gems, gold, scales of balance, contracts are the norm for a merchant class, but…that one seems strange.”

  She rubbed at it uneasily, though it was pretty to look at. What should I call this? The wealth of hearts? You know what, that’s a baller name for it! I’m sticking with it! She glanced at Clarke, who also was examining his wrist. “So, does it ever change?”

  “It can. Think of it as wearing your soul on your sleeve. A class isn’t just an occupation. It’s a way of living, a mentality. Most people only think of it in that first way, though. Just a job,” He added, and he traced his fingers across his wrist–tapping at six points, in a pattern? She wondered just what he saw. “The wrist is the most common. It may also show up in other places, on rare occasions.” She stared at him blankly.

  “If the gods gave me a tramp stamp, I’m gonna go on a god-killing spree, until they stop laughing,” she aired to the universe with burning fury. Clarke laughed anxiously and tried to give her a reassuring wave.

  “No, it’s not like that. It may show up someplace on your body that’s important to you. For soldiers and carriers-of-arms, it may be their arm, wrist, or fingers. For those of other occupations, their neck, torso, and chest. It’s unique to everyone, though many people do take the same class.”

  “How come no one ever mentions it? Or is it because no one else can see it?” she queried and looked at her wrist. Oh, Greg, I get this feeling I’m in even worse trouble than I was with that snotty-nosed king extorting me. She tried to keep calm as she adjusted her thoroughly frazzled hair behind her ears. Luckily, her attire hadn’t taken any damage during that rather rude awakening on the literal soul level.

  Clarke grunted before he examined her up and down. “Alright. As an administrator, I have a limited ability to see your class. It speaks to me that you’re, indeed, a ‘Merchant’." He narrowed his eyes as he looked right at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the class ‘Merchant of Fortune’. I don’t even think it is a class, because all I feel is 'Merchant'. It must be, I can’t imagine how it couldn’t be, with that dramatic a of contract execution."

  Great. Other people like Clarke see my class? That sounds problematic. “Look, Clarke, if I give you one tidbit, you gotta promise me you’re not going to make a ruckus. I just need to make a living, with a little less drama.”

  "My lips are sealed, Miss Swiftheart. On account of preserving my health, too," Clark responded after a short pause, his face growing somber. "There's something different, isn't there?"

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before gazing at him, in this now thoroughly disheveled room. No one outside apparently even noticed, and the glass was at least intact. “I’m not from here.”

  “You said that, but what did you mean?” he pondered.

  “I was summoned. I wasn’t born here. I came here six months ago, after I died someplace else. I didn’t have a single shred of clothing on me, and nothing else but my name and memories,” she stated solemnly. “Or, that's what I’ve figured out so far. A few of my friends know, very few, and very recently.”

  “Fiona, this is…summons usually have a class the second they show up,” he stated as he tidied himself up. “You didn’t?”

  “No. I have a class now, that’s all that matters. I’ve got bills to pay, Clarke. Sorry for the mess.” She proceeded to help him tidy up the furniture, and recover all the errant papers. A few were crinkled now, much to her displeasure. “Why is this such a big deal, though?”

  “Because everyone has a class, Fiona. Everyone has a font of power from somewhere.” He brushes the burnt bits of the promissory note into the trash bin, and then sets the papers down on his desk, to sort through later. “I don’t want to lose my job. You don’t want attention. Summons do happen, but–I’ve never heard of summons showing up like you did. You would normally be met by your summoner, whoever that might be. Or, have a class instantly. But none shows, now that I’m actively looking."

  “No one was there when I woke up. Either they cast their magical ‘yoink’ spell and peaced out, or I slipped through reality to get here,” she concluded. “I don’t want the attention, Clarke. I just want to live my life. Because you know what’s waiting for me, back at home? Nothing. Nothing but destruction.”

  He finally took the hint and slumped before nodding softly. “I…alright. But I must research this, Fiona. Discreetly. If you experience anything unusual, please let me know, alright?” he pulled out his arcane relay, and she reached for the one in her pocket.

  After a second of hesitation, she tapped hers against his, and a slight arc of yellow energy transferred between the two. He nodded and put the device away. “Good. Now, how much have you heard of classes, anyway?”

  “Not much. Never really entered much of my vernacular. I spent most of my time just whacking giant monsters, hanging out with friends, and lofting at my apartment, not realizing I was not the only summon,” she answered. He handed her a small book, and she gave him a questioning look. “What’s this?”

  “Knowledge. It's a pretty basic book, but if you were summoned and know nothing about the Contracts, or the gods-blessed classes of our world, then you better read up on them. And be discrete.” He sat down at his desk and tried to fix his tousled hair. He looked up at her with an expression of contemplation. “Congratulations on your class, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I think.” She turned for the door and departed, and should have been filled with joy. The shop was almost ready, but why did it feel like everything got thrown on an extremely tilted trajectory just now?

  Maybe I should have just written ‘Merchant’ like every other square! What was I thinking?! Nope, I am not indulging in this moment of self-inflicted panic, I am going to figure this out! She tapped her fingers anxiously against her new mark, before taking a calming breath. Okay, what’s the first step? I need to process this, and I need to talk to someone. And a coffee.

  Yep. She was headed to Darla's place, first, as soon as she was done with the renovation job. She needed to think on this one. Urgently.

  (Magius acquires the Merchant Class to make the sale...)

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