Under the pale light of early morning, the wagon swayed along the rutted northern road. A fine mist clung to the pines like cobwebs, and every wheel-rut sent a tired creak through the axles. Percy—his true name hidden—sat beside Olan, the bearded merchant in a faded blue cloak whose silver-trimmed boots and broad belt marked him as caravan leader.
Percy leaned in, voice low.
"How far will ten silver royals carry me out here?"
Olan gave a wry smile.
"Farther than you'd believe. In Imperis itself, ten silvers might buy you a night in a decent inn, a warm meal, even a hot bath—if you're lucky. But in the provinces?" He counted off on his fingers. "A week's food, a sturdy pair of boots, and a bottle of spiced brandy for your nights by the fire."
Percy's brow lifted. "That much?"
"Aye," Olan nodded. "The further from the capital, the heavier a Royal coin feels. Here, a copper royal can fill your belly and earn you a bed for the night—no questions asked."
He tapped the coins in Percy's hand.
"Elves trade in Vanyir and Selthar—beautiful coins, but useless unless you deal in spices or silks. Orvalians have their Orven Crowns and Silver Thorns—weighty but seldom spent beyond their duchy. And the Velkan Trade Union's Trade Tokens…" He shook his head. "Worth more on paper than coin in hand."
From the covered rear of the wagon, Cormac the coachman called out,
"Enough finance, Olan. Let the lad rest his head."
Rilla, the scar-faced jester, laughed.
"Bankers we are not—unless we can juggle interest rates!"
Percy allowed himself a small grin. The mood lightened, and they fell to their silent watch as the forest slipped past.
That evening, they broke camp beneath tall firs and set lanterns among the logs. Seven souls gathered around the fire:
Olan, the merchant-leader, stirring embers with a stick Cormac, the coachman, arms crossed on his chest Rilla, the jester, wineskin in hand Merrin, the illusionist, fingertips still dancing with sparks Faelin, the flutist, pipe resting on her knee Lyssa, the lute-player, her instrument across her lap And Percy, silent, cloak drawn about him
Olan cleared his throat. "Percy, you said you served on the High Plains under a certain Fox. Tell us—what was it like?"
Percy shifted uncomfortably. "It was… muddy," he muttered, staring at the ground. "Lots of mud and marches."
Cormac offered a gentle prod. "Surely there was glory, lad. They say the Fox turned the tide at Berthol."
Percy winced. "They say a lot of things." He tugged at his cloak. "I delivered messages and tended wounds—nothing heroic."
Lyssa's tone was warm. "Without supply lines, no army holds the field. Your work saved lives."
Merrin nodded, sparks fading to embers. "Valor wears many faces."
Faelin leaned forward. "And wasn't the Fox known for his calm under fire? Your steadiness must reflect some of that."
Percy's cheeks burned. "I—I kept my head down. War doesn't care who you are. It chews everyone up the same."
A hush fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire—until Rilla rolled onto his back with a groan.
"Well, that turned bleak fast. Who's up for a drinking song? Or another round to wash away our noble sentiments?"
Laughter rose around the ring as Lyssa tuned her lute. Percy let his cloak fall open just enough to reveal a relieved smile. He may not seek the spotlight, but in this circle of strangers, he found a kind of fellowship worth more than any silvers