The Scholar paused in the square outside the Archives, adjusting to the new ambience. Brilliant sunlight filtered down from above, blinding him after the candle-lit gloom of the master archivist’s office. He wandered into the city with no goal other than moving away from the Archives. Soon, his feet led him to an unfamiliar sector of the city.

Noise pummeled him from a side street in which dozens of merchants advertised their wares. A signpost at the mouth of the street proclaimed it as Pinnacle Market Street, the largest marketplace within city limits. The Scholar had never been here before; he had never had either the reason or the money to enter the wealthy sector’s marketplace when there were already plenty of family-run shops besides his own home.

On the stalls above, rich cloths and jeweled ornaments gleamed in the daylight, all shiny exteriors and prices that the Scholar could never dream of affording—all pretty images of prosperity in a nation that no one knew was crumbling from its very foundations.

A little way down the road, one vendor caught the Scholar’s eye. This fellow had snowy hair and wore unusual ankle-length robes where the average cityfolk wore short, practical tunics. His foreign features marked him as a man of far northern origins. A flock of customers had gathered around the old peddler’s cart, and coins changed hands rapidly. Those who had already purchased his items scurried away with only compliments about the quality.

The peddler’s cart held sheafs of thin, uniformly bleached paper. Some pieces were bound into small blank booklets, while others were simply held in loose bundles with a knotted string. By the look of the sample sheets pinned to the cart, the paper was tear-resistant as well.

As the Scholar moved closer, displeased muttering from the side caught his attention. Three local vendors watched the successful foreigner with envy.

“Stealing our customers,” one said.

“Thinks he’s better than us,” a second grumbled.

A third nodded. “Take him down, lads!”

The three vendors converged upon the peddler. Customers scattered as the local vendors kicked over the old peddler’s cart, scattering his neat stacks of white paper in the mud. The vendors trampled across the paper, pushing the old man to the ground when he tried to shoo them away. The Scholar rushed toward the commotion, waving his arms.

“Stop, stop! By the Crown, do you care for nothing but yourselves? Leave the poor old fellow alone,” the Scholar shouted.

Many of the locals moved away from the scene out of surprise, clearly not expecting a random passer-by to interfere. The envious vendors dispersed as quickly as they had attacked, leaving the old peddler floundering amid the ruined paper and overturned cart.

The Scholar helped the old peddler flip his cart back into the upright position. Much of his paper was covered in dirt or torn, but some still looked relatively clean. The Scholar gathered some of these sheets into a rough stack. When he handed these to the peddler, the old man looked shocked.

“Many thanks for your kindness, friend,” said the peddler. Placing the stack onto the cart, he wiped a splatter of dirt from his face with a trembling hand. “What violent youngsters. It is a pitiful businessman who must tear down others to promote his own sales.”

“If other markets are as competitive as this one, it must be difficult for newcomers to establish a presence,” the Scholar mused. He had never witnessed such an unprovoked attack in the far humbler market near his own home.

“In these cities, this ‘Empire of Bounty’ of yours, it is true. Not so elsewhere! In the Rainlands, all are equal and prosperous under the sun. I should never have left. I thought that good business existed south of the mountains, too. I was wrong. As I travel, the people only grow more greedy. And now, with your Empire’s ridiculous tax system, I cannot even afford enough provisions to make the journey back home.”

The Scholar shook his head, but he had nothing to offer save sympathy; he, too, was a newcomer to this particular marketplace. He gathered another stack of crumpled paper from the ground. As he worked, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. One of the three hostile vendors stood behind the Scholar.

“Twenty coins for a sheet of paper, good scribe? Cleanliness guaranteed. It’s much more convenient than scraping about in the muck for those dirty leaves,” the vendor offered.

“No.” The Scholar was more curt than usual, but the reminder of his recent dismissal stung. How had this vendor even known that he used to be a scribe? Pondering over this question, the Scholar brushed dirt off his clothes. Realization struck. Though he had been dismissed from the Archives, he was still wearing the uniform of a low-ranking scribe.

The Scholar helped the peddler transport his ruined paper supply to a local inn. The journey was short, but the peddler looked as though he had received a great favor. He invited the Scholar inside and purchased a pot of tea to share.

“Amid petty actions, one pure heart shines like the sun. I am in your debt, friend,” the peddler said, sorting through his remaining stock. Though over half of his paper supply had been stained or torn during the scuffle, he picked out the cleanest sheets and offered them to the Scholar. “Please, take these as payment for your intervention.”

“I couldn’t,” the Scholar said. The paper was of a higher quality than anything that he had purchased before, but he could not bear to accept such a gift. The Scholar had barely done anything to deserve the old peddler’s gratitude. Any business would suffer from the destruction of merchandise; with over half of the peddler’s supply trampled in the market, how could the Scholar further impose by taking the few remaining sheets?

At last, the Scholar decided on a compromise. He selected three of the soggiest sheets and handed the peddler a stack of coins. “Even damaged, this paper is twice the quality and half the price of anything I could normally find. I wish you better fortune in future enterprises.”

The familiarity of those words struck the Scholar immediately after speaking: earlier today, the master archivist had said nearly the same when ejecting him from the Archives, yet the meaning had been exactly the opposite as the Scholar now intended. He hoped that the peddler could discern the sincerity in his speech; where the master archivist had clearly offered well-wishes only as polite closure, the Scholar truly wished this traveling peddler a better future.

After finishing the tea, the Scholar spoke his farewells and left the inn. Citizens milled around the marketplace, heedless of one old paper peddler’s misfortune. Scraps of mudstained paper still littered the street.

One Scholar dismissed from his post, one old peddler’s livelihood ruined—and what did their suffering accomplish? The Archives were still full of lies; the markets were still full of greed. Nothing had changed.