The morning after the Silver Coin Guild arrived, Elderglen woke up differently. For as long as I had been here, mornings in the village were defined by a tense, rigid routine. The dawn was usually greeted by Korin barking orders, hunters checking the periter for hostile tracks, and the heavy, unspoken fear of what the day might bring.
Today, there were no patrols. There were no defensive preparations. Instead, the village woke up to the hum of magic tech generators and the chaotic, exciting noise of a bustling marketplace.
I stepped out of my cabin, pulling the collar of my new ballistic weave coat up against the morning chill. The air slled like roasted coffee beans, and sweet pastries,
The village square was packed. Hunters who normally spent their mornings sharpening crude iron axes were now gathered around a weapons stall, excitedly examining sleek, enchanted hunting rifles and modern compound bows. The blacksmiths were in a heated, passionate debate with a Guild artificer about thermal-alloys. Won were comparing bolts of self cleaning fabric, and children were weaving through the massive legs of the draft beasts, chasing each other in circles.
I leaned against a post, watching the chaos. It felt like a completely different world. For the first ti, nobody was looking over their shoulder toward the northern peaks. Nobody was worried about surviving tomorrow. They were just living.
Across the square, Lyra was holding court. She had set up a makeshift desk on top of a stack of crates, her heavy ledger open and her pen moving furiously. The village had pooled its resources, and as quartermaster, Lyra was in charge of verifying every single ounce of supplies purchased from the rchants.
I walked over, standing quietly to the side as a rchant demon with smooth, polished horns and a slicked-back ponytail proudly presented a shipnt of grain.
"Fifty bushels of premium winter grain, Madam," the rchant said with a pearly-white smile. "As agreed."
Lyra didn’t smile back. She tapped her pen against her chin, eyeing the crates. She stepped down, pulled a small knife from her belt, and popped the lid off the third crate in the stack. She sifted her hand through the top layer, dug deep into the center, and pulled up a handful of damp, slightly discolored seeds.
"This crate is rotting," Lyra said flatly, dropping the seeds back into the box. "You stacked the good bushels on the outside and hid the spoiled ones in the middle."
The rchant’s smile twitched, his tail flicking nervously behind him. "A simple packing error, Madam. The warehouse boys in the capital must have—"
"I don’t care who packed it," Lyra interrupted, returning to her ledger. "I’m docking the price of two bushels for the inconvenience, and you’re replacing this crate with a pristine one. Or I can go tell Varis that his n are trying to swindle a village out of basic foodstuffs."
The rchant blanched. "Right away, Madam. Apologies." He scrambled to fix the order. I chuckled, stepping up to the desk.
"You’re a nace," I said.
Lyra glanced up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "They’ve tried to sneak in three short-weighted bags of salt, a crate of expired dical salves, and a bundle of canvas that was mostly moth-holes. They think that because we live in the mountains, we don’t know how to count."
"They’re learning quickly," I said, watching another rchant frantically double-check his own inventory before approaching her desk. While Lyra dismantled the Guild’s profit margins, Mira was exploring the edges of the caravan.
She had wandered away from the busy center of the market, her little demon tail swishing curiously behind her. Near the massive, magic tech wheels of the lead wagon, a group of rchant children were sitting on a tarp, playing a complicated ga with glass marbles.
Mira stopped a few feet away, watching them. The disparity in their worlds was glaring. The rchant kids wore bright, synthetic jackets and warm, insulated boots. One boy had small, neatly trimd horns with silver caps on the tips. A girl beside him had faint, glowing blue scales along her jawline a mark of wealthy, city-dwelling elental blood.
The boy with the silver-capped horns looked up. He blinked, taking in Mira’s rough, hospun clothes, her unpolished horns, and the wild, untad look of a kid who had grown up in the frozen dirt.
"Whoa," the boy breathed, pointing at the bundle of white fur in Mira’s arms. "Is that a real snow rabbit?"
Mira puffed out her chest, holding the wild rabbit tightly. "Yes. I caught him myself under the cabin. He is very fierce."
The city kids stared at her in absolute awe. The girl with the glowing scales, Elin, pushed her thick modern goggles up onto her forehead.
"That’s so cool," Elin grinned. "We only get chanical mana-pets in the central districts. A real beast? You must be an amazing hunter. I’m Elin. Want to play?"
Mira’s defensive posture instantly lted into wide-eyed surprise. She nodded quickly and hurried over to sit on the tarp.
Within twenty minutes, the cultural differences completely evaporated. They ran laps around the massive draft beasts, playing a frantic ga of tag. They showed off their toys, Elin had a chanical bird that fluttered when you wound a key in its back, and the boy had a small, hovering mana-disk.
But to the city kids, Mira was the most fascinating thing there. They were entirely captivated by the wild snow-rabbit, feeding it dried vegetable scraps from the wagon and asking Mira questions about surviving in the mountains.
As they played, the children talked about many things. Mira listened, srized, as they described the capital, a demon city-state where buildings made of glass and steel scraped the clouds, where sky-trains powered by massive mana-crystals hovered over the streets, and where the sun was sotis blocked out by the sheer number of trading ships in the air.
It was a glimpse into a modernized, magical world that Mira couldn’t even fathom.
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