"Rusty Silver Coin."
Outside the shop, a copper-clad sign that hung from a steel pole creaked at the mercy of the night breeze, drawing passers-by's attention.
Nevertheless, few people would pause at the door.
This was how Clayton Bello had run the antique shop on a daily basis.
It was situated at 47 Lemon Street in Sasha City, a location neither particularly of a promise nor a curse, making for the shop's moderate business.
It was no ordinary shop. Clayton's income came mostly from old-time patrons.
The Bellos once settled down immovably in a city farther down in the Kingdom of Dorne. Only after Clayton's parents---- who deeply valued family unity----- passed away was Clayton allowed to decide where to live by himself.
In the four years after retiring from the military, he took over the shop using his severance and share of the inheritance. An antique shop sat in an industry inextricably linked to the upper-class society. Furthermore, his talent could be considered excellent in running a store. That's why he had seen his business thrive more than those of his peers setting up stalls on Blackstone Street.
On the shop's second floor, the current Clayton Bello, wearing a mask and an apron, bent over a bucket of murky liquid and fished out five faded medals with long tweezers.
They were the Lauren War Distinguished Service Medals that the royalty of Dorne had bestowed on the military members who had fought more than five battles during the War. A total of six hundred of them had been minted; each bore a high commemorative value.
Clayton had laid hands on twenty-four of them; twenty-three out of those were fake, except for the one belonging to himself.
When no antique pieces flowed in, an antique dealer had to make some by themselves.
"Mr. Bello, your guest has arrived."
After some knocks on the door, his female assistant's voice rang out.
"Got it. Miss Charlotte, You can leave now------see you tomorrow. "
Having acknowledged through the closed door, he meticulously sponged the corrosive liquid off the fake medals, wrapped them in pieces of silk, then lined them on the workbench.
Shedding the apron, he put on a black blazer and walked downstairs for the guest.
On the ground floor, a collection of enamelware and crystal figurines glittered in the lamplight within display cabinets.
Magnificent swords and blades were wall-mounted and unsheathed, seemingly ready for a call to arms at the next moment.
Down there, a brown-haired young man found these fabulous-looking weapons of little interest. Instead, he was studying the rust-spotted display items in the cabinets while folding his hands behind his back. He didn't turn around until Clayton showed up behind him.
"Lieutenant, I haven't seen you in so long."
At first glance of the white-suited, brown-haired chap, Clayton gave him a hug, "Joe, I have no idea you've come back. Our last meeting feels like yesterday."
Lieutenant was Clayton's rank in the army. He had gone by this pet name among his old buddies even after retirement.
They had been in the same battalion, fighting the Lauren War together.
Joe Mani had inherited Rusty Silver Coin, the antique shop, from his parents after returning from the battlefield. But, back then, Joe entertained thoughts of traveling the world and disliked the idea of being stuck in the small business, so he sold it to Clayton.
When the two of them stood close by, their distinction became pronounced. Clayton sported an invariable combination of a 3-7 part hairstyle and a thick kingly beard that furnished his well-defined features. His stature towered over Joe's. His piercing, amber eyes looked fearsome.
Joe was surprised by his former superior's unchanged appearance. "Me too. I am glad to see that you are leading a decent life. But I'm here for business today."
He retrieved a small box from his coat pocket and opened it. A silver ring sat atop the goose-down yellow velvet lining. It was smeared with some black specks from oxidation.
"A Bishop's Signet Ring from the Church, a hard-to-find treasure."
Now that the topic shifted to business, Clayton instantly turned severe. He didn't take the box but instead commented, "It is indeed precious, but not something to trade easily."
Across the Northern World---which encompassed the Kingdom of Dorne-----the White Church was the most popular religion. A Bishop's Signet Ring stood for its authority. Despite its slump from the prime period in the age of swords and blades, circulating such a ring in the market still risked a lot.
"Rest assured, it's absolutely legal, nobody would care about it."
Before Clayton could react, Joe placed the box in Clayton's hand, "It's originally a collectible piece from one of my foreign friends, but recently he's hit a rough patch in his business. He sold off these collectibles to fill the funding hole. For the sake of our friendship, I've bought this piece. But since I am not a collector, I've brought it to you."
With resignation, Clayton took the box from him. "How much did you spend on it?"
"Three hundred golden pounds."
Clayton pressed his temples for relief. This was a handsome sum, yet it could hardly match the value of a Bishop's Signet Ring.
"Did you meet this friend at a gaming table?"
"Ha ha..." Joe smiled with embarrassment and winked a couple of times, but offered no reply.
His expression told Clayton that he had returned to Sasha City for other hidden intentions; selling the ring was incidental.
Clayton immediately closed the box and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "I don't have much to say. If you are going to leave Sasha soon, I will deliver the money to your home after authenticating the ring."
Joe had no objections and proposed, "Why not go for a drink at the Tree House at six tomorrow night, just like how we did before?"
Clayton gave no objections, either.
After some more casual talk, he saw his old comrade off. Then, he cleaned the workspace and turned off the main switch.
The 'Rusty Silver Coin' slipped into darkness. Holding an oil lamp, he went out and locked the door before heading off for his rented place, a cheap apartment.
.......
Clayton Bello had never finished his college.
Conscripted at eighteen, he served in the cavalry troops, Rushing Stream Guard of Dorne, for eleven years.
Back when he had just been enlisted, line tactics still dominated the battlefields. However, as his retirement drew near, skirmish tactics had already been perfected, entering the military drill manuals.
Thirty-three was still a man's best time, yet Clayton felt like a withering old man.
Rarely did anything pique his interest.
During his military service, his parents succumbed to illness before he could rush home and see them one last time. His biological brother, who had joined him in serving the military, had his heart shot through by a stray bullet on another battlefield. Clayton had also witnessed many of his close comrades be blown to pieces by bombs...
What Clayton had dedicated to the army was not confined to his youth. That was the least of what he had lost.
He had decided on an antique dealer as his occupation in the hope of some self-changes as he soaked up the culture behind historical relics.
Yet, he remained bewildered after four years in this trade, but his techniques in forging antiques had developed and grown refined...
After dinner, Clayton retired to his converted study room.
The ring left him with some headaches. A potential buyer for it, an item derived from White Church, was hard to come by.
The ecclesiastical art was too ubiquitous, justifying a pervasive aesthetic fatigue.
In fact, a lot of collectors never cared whether the antique items they had bought were authentic or not. What they were hooked on was the feeling that they had brought home a one-and-only thing on earth. Regardless of its authenticity, the ring's homely look negated much of the possibility of a sale at a high price.
The only way he could manage that was to find a zealous believer before, in flowery terms, pitching it to him.
But Clayton had never been good at interacting with a devotee.
His parents were no followers of the White Church, and neither was Clayton.
The Bello family had at least one connection with the Church, though. His elder brother had once reeled in a nun at a monastery, who later became his wife. This had made clergy members in their hometown hostile towards the Bellos.
Given his upbringing, it was hardly surprising that Clayton disliked the Church. Besides, some of his private issues added to the very sentiment.
Nonetheless, for now, all that mattered was his business.
He retrieved the ring from his pocket and gazed intently at the signet.
A Bishop's mitre sat atop two crossing tridents, as the engraved pattern portrayed.
The pair of weapons gave away that it was the possession of a Bishop who had overseen a combat organization.
Clayton knew what the symbol stood for.
The pattern dated back to over three centuries ago when the Heretic's Tribunal was in place. It's a frightful institution that adjudicated against pagans, wizards, and Dark Races.
Nevertheless, at the slightest sign of abnormality, even ordinary folks might not be spared from the hunting by the war priests.
The deluge of wrongful cases caused bitter dissatisfaction among the countries. Eventually, the White Church disbanded the Heretic's Tribunal and executed a host of the priests but denied having sanctioned such preposterous, reckless acts.
Since it no longer acknowledged the Tribunal, the Church naturally would make no fuss about the trading of the ring. Even though it was authentic, it 'wasn't' their stuff.
That's what Joe had meant by 'legal'.
Glancing at the ring, Clayton spotted a square swell under the yellow velvet fabric.
He dumped the piece of yellow velvet from the box before a notepaper landed on the table. It seemed to be something left behind by the ring's former owner.
"It is rumored that a Bishop's Signet Ring has the blessings of God and could determine whether or not its owner has been replaced by a monster capable of shape-shifting. Wearing the ring would make a monster reveal their true form."
Clayton cast a glance at the ring lying still on the table.
Eager for novelty, he picked it up and twisted it onto his left little finger.
He waited with seconds of anticipation.
Yet, nothing happened.
"Sure enough it's fake! I'm an idiot!"
Exasperatedly, Clayton attempted to pull the ring off, yet unsuccessfully. His little finger seemed too big.
Walking into the bathroom, he was of a mind to grease his little finger with soap water.
At that moment, the skin of where his finger met the ring burned with a searing pain, which spread like wildfire through his entire body before shooting up to his head.
His torso puffed up and burst out from his clothes.
His whole body bristled with ebony-dark, needle-like hairs, while those hairless parts turned dull black. His originally staggering size grew by another one-fourth and his muscles bulged and rippled under his skin, although he remained gracefully slender.
His muzzle was lengthened, his ears became pointed, soaring backward, and his brown eyes were now glinting in the darkness.
Looking down at the ragged and tattered clothes on the floor, Clayton, the werewolf, scratched his head with his sharp fingernails and let out joyful, muffled words from his muzzle.
"Unbelievable! I've got one authentic this time!"