A sheet of parchment fluttered through the streets, borne upon the early gales of an oncoming storm. A person’s face moved into its path. The person screeched and flung the parchment aside, scrubbing his face with a purple silk handkerchief. His companion plucked the parchment from the air, holding it between two finely gloved fingers.

“Augh, some idiot paper-pusher is dissatisfied with his lot in life. What a surprise.” The second person tossed the parchment back to the street, peeled off his own white lamb-skin gloves, and tossed these into the street as well. He drew a new pair of gloves from his sleeve and donned them. “I told you, I told the Council that letting just anyone study for the Guild Exams was a bad idea. Next thing you know, they’ll be teaching the commoners to count.”

The first person shuddered. “Better hope not, or the tax revenue next year won’t be half as good.”

As the two continued on their way, a handkerchief fluttered to the ground in their wake.

The parchment, too, continued sailing on its way, now accompanied by a handkerchief—the gloves, being less aerodynamic by nature of their shape and mass, could not keep up.

Presently, the parchment came across a crowd of common folk and off-duty City Guard members gathered around a sheltered message board. The parchment attached itself to a conveniently placed leg, and the silk handkerchief followed suit.

“Eh?” said the owner of the leg, a certain Rare Antique Dealer by trade, and he scooped up the parchment and handkerchief. As he unfolded the former, his brow furrowed. He absentmindedly stuffed the handkerchief in a pocket, turning his full attention to the parchment.

Behind the Antique Dealer, a minor official from two cities to the south was reading the text of a poster recently nailed to the message board. This poster proudly displayed a caricature of a round-faced scribe, offering a thousand gold—denoted by a sketched pile of coins, to aid in understanding the size of the reward—for the capture of the self-proclaimed Sun Scholar. The crowd around the poster jostled with each other for a clear glimpse of the sketch.

As the Antique Dealer read over his latest find, the City Guard major strode up to the message board, flanked by half a dozen fellow guardsmen, and tore the poster from its nails. The foreign official dared not protest, and the major turned to the crowd.

“Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. The City Guard will take care of that thousand gold—and the criminal too, of course.”

The Antique Dealer hastily tucked the parchment into his sleeve and departed. A little way down the road, he saw a pair of leather gloves half-buried in the dirt. These joined the handkerchief in his pocket—gloves might be useful later on, and if nothing else, he could always sell them for a few coins.

After a quick bout of speed-walking, the Dealer reached his temporary lodgings at the local inn. His room was on the second floor, facing away from the main street. He shut and bolted the door, closed the wooden window shutters, and lit a candle. He then pinned his blanket over the window as well, ensuring that no passing cityfolk would see inside the room.

Sitting upon the bare wood slats of his sleeping pallet, the Dealer unfolded the new parchment. The handwriting was Imperial Archives Standard, with all of the crisp eloquence that one would expect of a state-trained scribe. Even the most illiterate farmer could recognize it, even if reading might prove more of a challenge for some. Not so for the Dealer. He had found identical flyers, written in the exact same hand, with increasing frequency as he brought his antique business westward.

Even if the Dealer had been uneducated in the written word, it would not have mattered. He already knew most of the contents by memory from whispers at countless taverns and inns: it was a recruitment leaflet for the Sun Scholar’s rebel movement. These days, who in the land did not know of the Sun Scholar and his army, the rebels who by sorcery and fell magicks were conquering new lands by the week? Already, several remote towns in the undeveloped west had united under their rule.

The Dealer traced the clean curves of the Sun Scholar’s wax seal in admiration: the circle of the sun, signifying the purity of fresh ideals; the outline of a flame behind it, a promise of undeniable power; the bold line of the horizon, ambitions for all the lands of the Empire and beyond. This leaflet invited potential recruits to join the revolution in the town of Redmarsh, two hours’ journey west of the Dealer’s current location.

Which to choose: a thousand coins of bounty gold in hand now, or the potential for all of the gold in the Empire after a few years’ time? The Dealer barely even considered the decision. If success could be found anywhere, it was in the Sun Scholar’s fledgling movement, where a clever fellow might have far greater opportunity for advancement than he would ever achieve as a wandering Antique Dealer in the Empire.

The Dealer took a map of the Empire from the bedside table, checking to ensure that his sense of timing was correct. He traced the roads between the city and Redmarsh. Just two hours stood between him and the future. Folding the map and leaflet, he rushed about the room to gather his other belongings. After these, he only needed to collect the horse-and-cart from the stables at the back, and then he could be off. It was only late evening; if he traveled quickly, he would arrive at Redmarsh before nightfall.

And then what?

The Dealer froze halfway through tying the straps of his travel pack. If he departed westward in obvious haste, with the City Guard on high alert after the bounty posted not half an hour ago, what would he find? A long stay in the city prison if he was lucky; otherwise, a beating or worse. He needed a better plan.

High noon was the perfect time for any honest traveling merchant to transport his wares to the next town. Under the brilliant sun, the Dealer led his horse-drawn cart toward the western gate in the city fortifications. He paused before the spiked metal archway, and a familiar guardsman stepped up to him. This guardsman had been in the tavern last night when the Dealer had chatted with various locals to gather information.

“You there, what’s your business outside the city?” No recognition emerged in the guardsman’s voice.

“I am a simple merchant traveling to the village of Clearstone,” the Dealer answered, flashing a huge smile. Clearstone was an hour’s walk north of here, but the roads to Redmarsh and Clearstone forked two miles away, well out of sight of the City Guard watchtowers.

The guardsman approached, prodding at the Dealer’s cart with his spear. The Dealer helpfully flipped back the rain-proof tarp covering. The cart bed held the Dealer’s travel pack, a bedroll, and a small pile of burlap potato sacks. The Dealer helpfully untied one, revealing a pile of rusty knives, cups, and other dreadfully corroded metal tools.

“Scrap metal dealer, eh? Can’t imagine those sell for much,” the guardsman said.

“Family business.” The Dealer looked at the ground and scrubbed one foot through the dirt. “Wasn’t good enough for the Guild in my hometown, so it’s the traveling life for me. At least the blacksmiths occasionally... take pity.”

Sympathy spread across the guardsman’s face, just as the Dealer had expected. The guardsman nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I know how it is. The Imperial Army only takes the best, and that wasn’t me. Don’t dwell on it, my friend. Scrap dealer, City Guard—we might not be at the top, but we still made it this far.” The guardsman waved to a colleague stationed in the watchtower beside the gate, and the wrought iron door creaked open. “Safe travels to Clearstone Village.”

The Dealer smiled in thanks, and then he was off upon the road. The endless blue sky spread above, greeting him into equally endless possibilities. He walked into its embrace, ready to meet his destiny.

Hours later, the sparse treeline around the road abated into a swaying prairie of brown reeds, and the flat forest floor turned into a pond-ridden labyrinth. The afternoon sun hung round and golden over a distant line of rooftops, blinding the Dealer with both direct and reflected splendor.

From the direction of the town, two or three dozen dark figures manifested from the sunbeams. As they approached, their silhouettes resolved into horseback riders carrying wooden polearms. The Dealer continued on his way, and they soon intercepted him. The riders formed a loose semicircle in front of the Dealer’s cart. His horse tried to shy away, but the Dealer patted sleek tan fur in reassurance.

“Halt! Who goes there?” a rider shouted.

“A simple traveling merchant. I’ve come to join you, good fellows.” The Dealer produced the leaflet from his sleeve, unfurling it with a flourish. “Rumors of the Sun Scholar’s virtuous rule have spread through the land. I want to support the revolution however I can.”

The lead rider dismounted and inspected the leaflet, glancing over the text with the ease of the illiterate. When his gaze fell upon the wax signature seal at the bottom of the parchment, he smiled.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, merchant. Welcome to Redmarsh.”