Avery's POV
The weight of my father's refusal still clung to me like a stubborn shadow, but I had long since learned that obstacles weren't dead ends; they were only detours. If he wouldn't grant me access to the mines, then I would carve my own path.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of my small room, I surveyed the chaos around me; old books stacked haphazardly, scattered notes filled with half-formed ideas, remnants of my time at the bar. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of aged parchment, but I barely noticed. My mind was already turning, pulling pieces together, shaping something from the wreckage of my circumstances.
I had spent months observing people at the bar, watching how money moved and how wealth was flaunted. People's desires weren't always practical, sometimes, they were sentimental.