The market buzzed with activity as the afternoon stretched into early evening, the golden light casting long shadows across the cobblestone square. Bright pennants snapped in a gentle breeze that carried the mixed scents of freshly harvested grain, polished metal, and the lingering promise of cooking fires yet to be lit. Stalls stood shoulder-to-shoulder under makeshift awnings of canvas and wood, each one vibrant with color and sound. Hawkers dressed in homespun tunics or travel-worn cloaks called out their wares in voices roughened by the day’s trade. Their pitches overlapped with the delighted squeals of children darting between the crowd and the occasional bray of a stubborn mule. Everything here felt larger than life to Arien, who trailed in Kael’s wake, eyes gleaming with both curiosity and fatigue.
Arien was a wiry boy with sandy hair that curled at the nape of his neck. He wasn’t tall, but he carried himself with a nervous energy that hinted at boundless eagerness. He had never seen so many people in one place. Back in Greywood, market day was a humbler affair, a weekly gathering of a dozen or so vendors at most. But here, in this bustling town that Kael had led him to after a journey spanning many days, it felt as though the entire world had converged upon a single plaza to trade, barter, gossip, and revel.
The afternoon’s light held that magical quality of summer’s tail end—warm and saturated, yet gentle enough not to scorch. It illuminated dust motes drifting in the air like tiny gold sparks, and outlined the edges of every stall and person, casting them in a soft glow that made the whole scene feel dreamlike. Yet Arien’s senses remained keen, increasingly aware of the multiplicity of smells around him. Where Greywood’s market would carry the fragrance of only a handful of breads, this square was a veritable feast for the nose: oniony steam wafted from a stall selling savory pastries, the resinous scent of pine tar drifted from another offering woodworking supplies, and somewhere not too far off, the distinct tang of pickled vegetables made Arien’s stomach churn and growl at the same time. He’d eaten little more than travel rations that morning.
He and Kael navigated through the crowds, careful to avoid the path of a short-tempered donkey that looked ready to snap at any stray hand. Merchants from distant lands hoisted displays of glittering curios. Some stalls offered shimmering crystals the size of a child’s fist, while others showcased fat pouches of pungent herbs that, according to the shouting vendors, could cure any malady under the sun—everything from a runny nose to a broken heart. Colorful tapestries, thick winter cloaks, carved statuettes, and polished rune stones changed hands in a flurry of transactions. Coins clinked and tongues wagged, all underscored by the rhythmic scuff of countless boots over worn cobblestones.
Arien followed Kael, the boy’s brown eyes wide as he tried to take in every detail. The older man had told him that a true traveler always watched and listened more than he spoke. They moved past a stall where a woman shaped glass with what looked like a small, rune-etched blowpipe. Sparks of light flickered around her skilled fingers, forming delicate ornaments of translucent red and orange that swirled with molten brilliance. Arien paused just to absorb the heat radiating from her craft. Though he couldn’t feel any scorching intensity—clearly the runes tempered the temperature—he saw her glass rods shimmer with an energy reminiscent of molten lava. Another second’s hesitation, and Kael waved him on.
The scents were almost overwhelming at times. Freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery mingled with the tang of cured meat and the sharp earthiness of spices. Cloves, cardamom, ginger, and a half-dozen other aromatics created a tapestry of scents that made Arien’s head spin. He inhaled deeply, relishing the exotic mixture. It was so different from Greywood’s simpler notes of pine, peat, and hearth smoke. But overshadowing it all was a faint metallic tinge he kept catching in short bursts—a strange undercurrent that he soon realized came from the rune-powered devices humming softly on display at certain stalls. Their arcane hum blended with the harmony of voices, footsteps, and clinking coins.
One stall specialized in lanterns etched with delicate runes that flickered with an inner light even under the setting sun. The merchant—a wiry man with a shock of silver hair—kept explaining to passersby how these lamps would remain lit forever, impervious to wind or rain. Yet each one bore slightly different engravings, hinting that the runes were not all identical. Beside the lanterns, the same merchant displayed rune-inscribed cooking pots that shimmered faintly. Kael pointed them out with a small smile, remarking that the magic promised perfect heat distribution without a single ember—ideal for travelers who never knew when they’d find dry wood for a fire. Arien imagined Ael, his aunt, marveling at a pot that never burned stew. The thought made him smile, recalling her exasperation whenever something charred on her hearth.
Kael led them to a stall laden with baskets of herbs and roots, the vendor eyeing him with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. The woman behind the baskets wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast her eyes in shadow, though the rest of her face appeared creased by years of sun and work. Kael picked up a bundle of dried sage, sniffing it theatrically before glancing at the vendor with a wry smile.
“This sage, my good lady, smells like the gods themselves tended it,” he proclaimed. “Surely you wouldn’t charge a humble traveler like me the same price as a king?”
The vendor chuckled, a throaty sound as she folded her arms across her chest. “Kings don’t haggle over sage, old man,” she said, her lips curving in a wry grin. Her broad shoulders and callused hands suggested she harvested many of these herbs herself, wrestling them from rocky soil or deep forests.
Kael winked. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a king. But tell me, what’s the price for someone who could make your name famous in the hamlets?”
She shook her head, bemused. “My name is only good here and in the fields where I gather. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Arien watched, fascinated, as Kael’s charm wore down the vendor’s resistance. He’d never seen such effortless bargaining. Kael’s tone was playful, but there was an undercurrent of knowledge in his words—a mention of the perfect dryness of the sage, a question about the region’s soil, a compliment about the vendor’s care in bundling the herbs. Bit by bit, she lowered her price, albeit grudgingly, until a handful of rune-marked bronze coins exchanged hands. By then, Kael had secured not only the herbs but also a small pouch of mint for what seemed like an impossible bargain.
“Bartering is an art,” Kael said over his shoulder as they moved to the next stall. “And I am nothing if not an artist.” He tipped his head at Arien, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
At another stall, Arien paused to stare at a set of intricate tools. They were simple farming implements—hoes, plows, and pruning shears—but each one glowed faintly with magical etchings along their edges. The runes seemed to hum with latent energy, promising efficiency and durability beyond anything Greywood could imagine. Each piece of metal was forged with a meticulous craftsmanship that sang of devotion to the craft. The vendor, a stocky blacksmith with a leather apron stained by soot, hawked the tools’ merits with a booming voice. He claimed they could make even the poorest soil yield a richer crop.
“Careful,” Kael said, noting Arien’s awestruck expression as the boy ran a hand over the polished handle of a hoe. “Staring too long at these things makes you forget they’re just tools. Fancy ones, but tools all the same.”
A nearby vendor overheard and laughed, his leathery face brightening with mirth. “Fancy, sure, but they’ll save a farmer’s back and his crops. Try telling him they’re just tools after his harvest triples.”
Arien continued running his fingers along the wooden hoe handle, the wood warm and smooth beneath his touch. He could swear he felt a heartbeat or pulse in the runes, as though the magic flickered in sync with the bustle of the market. “It’s amazing,” he said softly. “Like the magic is alive.”
“In a way, it is,” Kael replied. “Runes carry intent, boy. The clearer the intent, the stronger the magic. It’s not so different from people—what you put into the world shapes what you get out of it.”
Arien turned the thought over in his mind, eventually setting the hoe down with care. It was easy to be dazzled by something so extraordinary. He tried to imagine Greywood’s small fields humming with similar magical tools, envisaging bountiful harvests in place of the struggle he knew well from childhood. The daydream made him smile until a pang of reality reminded him that such wonders cost coin, and Greywood had little to spare.
As the sun dipped lower, burnishing the rooftops with a fiery orange glow, the market began to wind down. Vendors packed their unsold goods into crates, and the lively chatter of the day softened into the quiet murmurs of neighbors bidding each other goodnight. A group of children ran by, their laughter echoing in the suddenly roomier square. Kael and Arien made their way back to the wagon, now heavier with supplies and small treasures for the people of Greywood. The donkey, tethered to a post near a faded trough, flapped its ears and gave a short, annoyed snort at their approach.
A mellow hush settled over the streets as they reached the inn, a modest building with a slanted roof and a faintly glowing rune etched above the doorway. The emblem flickered a soft green in the twilight, indicating to travelers that food, drink, and rest could be found here, if one knew how to knock. A lanky stable hand with straw-blond hair and a face still ruddy from the day’s heat took the donkey with a quick grin. Kael slipped him a rune-marked coin. “Take care of this beast,” he said. “Or he’ll have my hide.”
The stable hand nodded, patting the donkey’s flank. “He’ll be treated like a king,” the young man promised, his voice confident. Yet Arien noticed the donkey rolling its eyes in clear skepticism.
Inside, the inn’s common room was plain but warm, the walls covered with simple tapestries depicting fields and forests. Each tapestry looked a bit timeworn, their colors faded, yet they still carried a homely charm. The aroma of cooked vegetables and old hearthwood wrapped around Arien the moment he stepped inside, a comforting contrast to the cacophonous swirl of the market. Rune-lit lamps cast a steady golden glow over the wooden tables, where farmers and travelers sat nursing mugs of ale or picking at the remnants of hearty meals. A few looked up as Kael and Arien entered, but most returned to their quiet conversations or solitary musings.
The innkeeper, a stout woman with kindly eyes and a faint sprinkling of flour on her apron, emerged from the kitchen. She had thick arms that spoke to years of lifting barrels and hauling sacks of grain. She placed two steaming bowls of stew on a table along with thick slices of crusty bread and a wedge of sharp cheese. “Rooms are full tonight,” she said apologetically. “Roads are bustling with folk heading to the Harvest Faire up north. But there’s room in the common room if you don’t mind bunking down with everyone else.”
Kael thanked her, and they sat. Arien ate quickly, hunger taking precedence over any desire to savor the meal. The bread was dense and soft in the middle, with just enough of a crust to be satisfying. The vegetable stew was hearty, though it lacked the subtle herbs and layers of flavor Ael typically coaxed into her dishes back home. Now and then, Arien’s spoon struck a chunk of carrot or potato, and he chewed contentedly, grateful for warm food.
“Not quite what you’re used to, eh?” Kael teased, dipping his bread into the stew with a grin. “Your aunt has spoiled you. Don’t forget that the next time she chases you out of her kitchen.”
Arien chuckled between bites, indeed thinking of Ael’s kitchen—small, cozy, and filled with the aroma of fresh herbs. “I won’t,” he promised. Despite the inn’s serviceable meal, he couldn’t help missing the taste of home. He reminded himself that this was an adventure, and not everything would match the comforts he’d known.
As they lingered, Arien took stock of the other patrons. Some were local farmers with sun-worn features, their clothing battered by constant toil in the fields. Others had the look of travelers—mud-spattered boots, dust-caked cloaks, eyes that darted about, measuring the room. A pair of traders in threadbare finery argued softly over a bundle of textiles draped on a nearby table. Their hushed dispute sounded like a negotiation gone sour, or perhaps an old grudge flaring up. Across the room, an elderly farmer sat alone, large hands dwarfed by the pewter mug he nursed. He looked world-weary, as though the day’s labors had left him with little energy for conversation.
When the innkeeper began dimming the lights, snuffing out a couple of the rune-lamps to conserve power, the common room transformed into a makeshift sleeping area. Some travelers unrolled blankets, others removed cloaks. One man propped his long staff against a corner and used his knapsack as a pillow. Kael claimed a spot near the hearth, where embers still glowed faintly, and motioned for Arien to join him.
Arien felt a slight chill seeping through the floorboards. He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak, nestling against the warmth radiating from the half-dormant fire. Around him, the sounds of muffled snores, the scrape of boots being removed, and the occasional rustle of fabric created a strange but comforting lullaby. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the half-lit rune lamps and the flickering glow from the hearth. The interplay of soft light and dark corners gave the room an otherworldly atmosphere, like a place suspended halfway between waking life and dream.
Kael leaned back, voice low but steady. “Today was a good day, boy. Remember it. Days like this don’t come often. There are times when the wind is at your back, and luck seems ready to dance with you.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Arien nodded, eyelids drooping. The market, the magic, the endless stories—images of the vendor stalls and shimmering runes floated through his drowsy mind. He wondered what the next day might bring. The lingering hum of the runes and the distant snores of other travelers followed him into his dreams.
--
Morning arrived like a gentle visitor tapping at the window, bringing fresh light that bathed the market square in a pale gold radiance. Arien stirred awake in the inn’s common room to the muffled sounds of the stable hand coaxing the donkey outside, the creature letting out a resentful huff. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinking at the few early risers already packing their belongings. Kael was up as well, rummaging through his satchel with quiet efficiency. Despite the bumpy wooden floor, Arien felt oddly refreshed, buoyed by the sense of promise a new day always brought.
They made their way outside, stepping into air that still carried a hint of dawn’s chill. The cobblestones glistened with morning dew, catching the sunlight in tiny refracted rainbows. Vendors were already returning to their stalls, either dragging carts or carrying boxes filled with goods. A group of three musicians—a flutist, a small-drum player, and a woman with a lute—set up near the center of the square, tuning their instruments with bright, plucky notes that echoed off the buildings.
As Kael and Arien walked, the boy noticed that some of yesterday’s vendors had departed, replaced by new faces and fresh items for sale. He recognized different dialects, inflections, and expressions in the crowd. Here was a northerner boasting of her rare furs, her accent thick and rolling. Over there stood a glassy-eyed fellow in threadbare finery, hawking “authentic relics” from a distant temple. The diversity of tradespeople made the market feel like a constantly shifting tapestry, every day woven anew.
Arien took a moment to marvel at how the square changed with the position of the sun. Daylight illuminated corners he hadn’t noticed before—an old well, perhaps centuries old, at the plaza’s edge, lined with crawling ivy that reached over its stones. Some children raced around it in circles, chanting a rhyme that Arien didn’t recognize. Over by a bakery stall, plumes of steam rose from trays of pastries just pulled from a portable oven inscribed with runes to maintain steady heat. The smell of butter, sugar, and warm dough drifted over, setting Arien’s stomach rumbling more than it had the previous night.
Kael didn’t miss the longing look Arien cast at the pastries. But the old man shook his head with a quiet smile. “Those’ll cost more than you think,” he teased. “Your mouth might not mind, but our coin pouches would.”
Undeterred, Arien trotted after him. Soon enough, they found a simpler bread stall where Kael bartered for a couple of rolls studded with seeds. The aroma was slightly tangy and fresh, and when Arien bit into his roll, it crackled with a satisfying crunch. The inside was soft, almost cake-like. It filled his mouth with the earthy warmth of freshly milled flour. Kael pinched a piece from his own roll and dipped it in a small dish of honey that the vendor allowed them to sample. Arien followed suit, reveling in the sweetness that coated his tongue.
The market’s hum of morning chatter rose around them. People gossiped about everything: the next festival, the rumored monster sightings in the hills, the best methods to preserve fruit through the winter, and the latest updates from distant realms. Over by a stand of shimmering, rune-inscribed fabrics, two tailors were locked in a good-natured exchange of sewing tips and enchantment recipes. Their laughter rang out whenever one outdid the other with a particularly clever trick.
Kael, staff tapping a steady rhythm against the ground, led Arien through the labyrinth of stalls with practiced ease. He examined goods with the critical eye of a connoisseur, yet always kept an ear open for stray bits of conversation that might prove useful. Arien, meanwhile, soaked in the spectacle of it all: hawks in wooden cages, waiting to be sold to hunters; faintly glowing crystals arranged in symmetrical patterns; hammered metal amulets sporting intricate designs. If the older man’s lesson was to observe more than he spoke, Arien felt he could spend days here, and still not see half the wonders on display.
They stopped at a stand displaying shimmering fabrics, each material covered with woven runes that changed color in the sunlight. Kael ran a hand over a swatch of deep purple cloth that shifted to turquoise under his palm. “Glamour-woven,” he muttered to Arien. “Not as common as the practical runes on tools, but sometimes used by nobles who care more about appearance than function.”
The vendor, a tall woman with braided silver hair, clearly recognized Kael’s knowledge. She moved closer, offering a polite bow. “Indeed, master traveler. These cloths come from the high mountains to the east. Only certain weavers know the secret spells to coax runes into the very threads.”
Kael nodded thoughtfully, but he showed no intent to purchase. The vendor, sensing a mere curiosity rather than a sale, drifted away to court a couple of other wide-eyed onlookers.
The morning wore on, and Kael secured a few more supplies: some dried fruits, a spool of sturdy rope laced with faint runes for extra tensile strength, and a small bottle of herbal oil that claimed to ease stiff joints. At each stall, Kael bantered with the vendor, trading quips and compliments in a way that seemed to chip away at their defenses. Arien observed him closely, trying to learn the rhythms of Kael’s negotiation strategy. He saw how Kael balanced flattery with pointed questions—sometimes feigning disinterest, other times hinting at exclusive knowledge. It was a performance as much as a conversation, and it reminded Arien of how seamlessly the man moved through the world, always weaving new stories wherever he went.
Just as Arien thought they might have seen every corner of the market, Kael’s steps slowed. The sun, now high in the sky, cast short shadows, yet the warmth on Arien’s shoulders felt comforting rather than oppressive. His eyes flicked to Kael’s face, noticing the older man’s suddenly serious expression. Kael stopped so abruptly that Arien nearly bumped into him.
“What is it?” Arien asked, voice hushed.
Kael didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled Arien subtly behind him, shifting his staff from one hand to the other. His gaze fixed on a group at the far edge of the market. They stood out not just for their attire, but for the aura of confidence—or arrogance—they seemed to radiate. Rich green and crimson cloaks draped over broad shoulders, each pinned with silver brooches shaped like stylized serpents. Their feathered headdresses, woven with exotic plumes that shimmered with iridescent brilliance, caught the light dramatically.
“Who are they?” Arien whispered, peeking around Kael’s arm to catch a clearer look at the newcomers.
“The Bloodbound Empire,” Kael murmured, his tone carrying a note of caution. “Xochiral’s finest, or so they’d have you believe.”
Arien’s heart jumped. He’d heard tales of Xochiral from traveling bards and in half-whispered rumors around Greywood’s modest tavern. A land of steaming jungles, towering pyramids, and blood rites performed beneath scorching suns. A realm where warrior-priests carried obsidian blades and honored gods that demanded both fear and devotion. The power of Xochiral’s empire was said to extend across oceans and deserts, influencing trade routes and entire kingdoms. Now, seeing these ambassadors—if that was what they were—brought those stories to life in a chilling way.
They were tall, with lean, corded muscles visible beneath their embroidered sleeves. Their features were sharp, almost hawk-like, with high cheekbones and dark eyes that surveyed the market with a mixture of disdain and cold curiosity. One of them, presumably a leader, wore a pectoral plate of hammered gold, shaped in the form of a stylized jaguar. Feathers of deep blue and vivid green fanned from his headdress, dancing in the light each time he moved. A second figure, slightly shorter, carried a staff topped with a carved obsidian head that glinted like black ice.
“They don’t look... dangerous,” Arien ventured, though he felt a chill thread through his words. Something about their poise made him wary.
“That’s what makes them dangerous,” Kael said, voice low. “The jungle doesn’t roar before it swallows you, lad. It waits, silent and patient.”
As if on cue, a hush seemed to follow the Xochiral group as they proceeded deeper into the market. Most vendors gave them a wide berth, not out of hostility but out of cautious respect. A few of the braver or more desperate traders tried to catch their attention, bowing or gesturing to their goods. The group paid them little mind, their gazes flicking around as though appraising the entire marketplace in a single glance. When one vendor—a leatherworker with a heavily scarred forearm—stepped forward to display a finely stitched belt, the leader of the group paused for half a heartbeat before dismissing the man with an almost imperceptible tilt of his chin.
“Why are they here?” Arien asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Hard to say,” Kael replied. He placed a gentle yet firm hand on Arien’s shoulder. “But whatever it is, it’s not for the fresh bread or enchanted sickles. Stay close, and keep your wits about you.”
For an instant, Arien wished that their donkey-drawn wagon was already well on the road back to Greywood. Yet at the same time, a spark of curiosity tugged at him. Xochiral was a place of myth and dread, but also of wonder—so the bards’ tales said. Did these emissaries bring gifts or demands? Were they exploring trade routes, or did they seek some arcane knowledge rumored to be hidden in these parts? Arien’s mind whirled with possibilities.
The group glided into the crowd’s flow with uncanny grace, each step in unison. Their sumptuous cloaks caught the sunlight, shimmering with the same intensity as the runes on the enchanted stalls. Though they made no overt moves, the tension around them was palpable, like a suppressed thunderstorm waiting to break. Some older vendors averted their eyes. Mothers pulled their children close. A pair of town guards, armed with short spears and wearing simple leather cuirasses, watched from a distance, their expressions uncertain.
Arien swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his heart pounded. In the background, the market’s usual clamor went on—someone haggling for cheaper onions, another praising the magical properties of a rune-marked hammer—but an undercurrent of unease had crept in. A subtle shift had taken place: the carefree laughter and spirited banter felt muted. Even the vibrant pennants fluttering in the breeze over the stalls seemed to droop, as if weighed down by the group’s presence.
The donkey, still tethered near the wagon at the opposite end of the square, let out a nervous bray, as though picking up on the subtle shift in atmosphere. A scuffle broke out near a fishmonger’s stall, swiftly quelled by a pair of passersby, but a few heads turned to see if the Xochiral group would intervene or show any reaction. They did not, continuing their measured pace, eyes scanning for something unseen.
“Let’s not linger here,” Kael said softly. He nudged Arien to follow. “We’ve seen enough for one morning.”
Arien tore his gaze from the retreating shapes of the Xochiral contingent. He could still feel the pulse of their presence as strongly as he had felt the hum from the rune-forged tools. It was an electric sensation that both intrigued and unsettled him. His thoughts flitted to Greywood, to the simpler life he’d known until now. A pang of longing rose in him, even as the allure of new wonders beckoned.
They wound their way back toward the wagon. Kael’s posture was tense, as though preparing for the unexpected. Arien kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting the Xochiral visitors to reappear behind them. But the bustle of the market soon closed in, swallowing up even the memory of those feathered cloaks. Vendors resumed their calls, passersby laughed at jokes Arien couldn’t hear, and the street musicians plucked cheerful notes in an effort to entice a few coins from travelers.
Yet even with the swirl of normal market life returning, Arien sensed a faint chill in the air. The donkey brayed again, agitated, and stomped a hoof. Kael ran a soothing hand along its flank, murmuring something Arien didn’t catch. The sun still shone brightly overhead, but the boy felt as though a cloud had passed over, briefly dimming the square.
A short time later, they stood by the wagon, taking stock of their purchases. Sacks of grain, dried fruits, new tools, and the runic knickknacks Kael always collected to trade down the line. The donkey looked sidelong at them, as if to say, “Isn’t it time we left?” Kael responded to the silent question by fiddling with the harness, checking the fit and adjusting the straps to ensure no chafing. Arien, noticing a tear in the wagon’s canopy, used a bit of thread and a sewing needle—procured earlier from a traveling seamstress—to make a quick repair.
“Mind your stitches, lad,” Kael said, giving him an approving nod. “A tear like that can let in the rain, and once the goods get wet, it’s a problem.”
Arien’s fingers worked with surprising deftness. He recalled Ael teaching him basic sewing, claiming every skill could be useful someday. This day, it seemed, had arrived. While he worked, a hush of reflection filled him. He thought about how their visit to the market was supposed to be a simple routine—selling, buying, and returning to Greywood. Now, the memory of those Xochiral figures gnawed at him, prying open questions he couldn’t quite voice.
When he finished, they decided to stay in town one more night. Kael suggested they might glean fresh gossip about the Xochiral visitors, or at least avoid traveling at dusk along roads known to shelter bandits and wild creatures. Arien agreed; part of him still wanted to explore more of the town, maybe see if there were sights or runic marvels they missed. He also felt a small, rebellious spark in his heart that wanted to unravel the mystery the Bloodbound Empire posed.
That evening, they returned to the same inn, the donkey safely stabled and the wagon’s purchases secured. The common room was busier than the night before, full of chatter and the scents of ale, roasted potatoes, and something sweet and spiced that Arien couldn’t quite place. The innkeeper bustled about with tired efficiency, her apron perpetually dusted by flour or salt, balancing plates of simple meals and pitchers of cool water or warm cider. Kael found them seats at a long table already occupied by a family of four. The children, wide-eyed, stared at Arien as though he were a foreign curiosity, but Arien offered a friendly smile that eased their shyness.
After ordering a modest dinner—vegetable stew again, but with a side of spiced sausage—Kael tried to strike up a conversation about the day’s events. Gossip floated around:
“Did you see them? Looked like jungle princes, they did,” whispered a woman from two stools down.
“Heard they can melt a man’s bones with blood magic,” said a young fellow with more bravado than sense.
“Bah, just travelers like anyone else,” retorted a stocky merchant with scars on his knuckles. “Though they gave me the shivers.”
Kael leaned closer, feigning casual interest. “No one knows why they’re here, then?”
The merchant shook his head. “Some say they’re on a diplomatic mission, others that they’re after old relics rumored to be hidden around these parts.”
“They didn’t buy a thing from my stall,” the woman added, disappointment coloring her tone. “Tried to show them my best pottery, but they just swept on by.”
Arien ate quietly, absorbing every snippet of rumor and speculation. Part of him wanted to ask direct questions: Did anyone see them speak with local officials? Had they made any demands? But Kael’s earlier warning about caution remained fresh in his mind. So, he listened.
As the night wore on, the inn filled with the fug of human bodies. The chatter rose in volume, partly from the drinks served, partly from the excitement swirling about these unknown visitors. Some nights in Greywood’s tavern, Arien might hear a single traveling bard spin stories, or local farmers complaining about the weather. Here, stories and complaints converged from half a dozen different towns, each with its own accent and concerns. The novelty both delighted and overwhelmed him.
Eventually, travel-worn folks started to claim corners to roll out bedding. Kael motioned for Arien to settle near the same spot by the hearth. The fire was lower tonight, the embers still glowing but not as warmly as the previous night. Arien wrapped himself in his cloak and used his half-full satchel as a pillow. Sleep beckoned, but his mind was alive with images: the flickering runes on a blacksmith’s tools, the glassblower’s swirling shapes, and above all, the regal yet ominous presence of those Xochiral delegates.
Kael’s voice, quiet yet resolute, cut through the haze of thought. “Keep your head on straight, lad. We’re just travelers, like many here. Sometimes, it’s best not to go poking at storms.”
Arien nodded, though the question in his heart remained. He shut his eyes, willing sleep to come.
