“When I fought the North Lords, I saw men I grew up with die. Can you imagine what that must have been like? To know someone your whole life. To see them everyday. Talk to them and their parents, their brothers and sisters.

“And then one day see them impaled on a lance. Or trampled into the mud. The man I called my sworn brother died in my arms, drowning in his own blood.

“I killed boys I’d never met. Boys who did me no wrong. Lycans and Dragons dominated the field and those who couldn’t break into the second World, those like my brother, were just meat thrown into a grinder until one side either ran out of meat or decided to throw it away elsewhere.

“If you survive long enough you begin to wonder where you are and how you got there. Hell becomes more than just a story we tell ourselves. After a while you forget what it even means to be human. You stop crying. Stop shaking and pissing yourself before the start of every fight.

“You follow orders. You die or you don’t. There’s no living to be had and even when it’s all over what do you do? How do you go back home after that? How do you live when the light in your soul is swallowed up by those bloody fields and only the darkness of those days comes back with you?”

His father paused, voice thin. Eyes distant and pale. He’d hardly touched his breakfast. Two eggs and a slice of bacon on a plain wooden plate laid out by their mother Narsila.

She put her hand on his forearm and sniffed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Taren put his fork down and eyed him with concern. Father never spoke about the war. Even before lord Silvertree and his grandson moved their house to Lumenos.

He noted the lines under his father’s eyes had grown deeper than he’d realized.

Allanir should have been a man in his forties but his bloody illness had taken its toll. He slumped in his chair, face haggard and drawn, staring absently at the center of the table.

He wanted to say something, anything. But the words failed to find his tongue and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Before Victor left last night we spoke again,” his father continued. “And I realize that it’s far worse than I’d thought. I haven’t forgotten what the two of you said, but still. It would put your mother and I at ease if you swore to us you’ll stay as far away from war as you can.”

Taren gave his word without hesitation. So of course he did the same. Not that he saw the point in doing so. He’d meant every word of what he’d said.

If he killed lord Albryte’s sons no doubt the lord would come after his head. Running from him or running from a draft made no difference. Either way his stay in Falden would come to an end.

But after seeing his father again, slowly withering into nothing, he wasn’t so sure of himself. Had he made the right decision to confront the twins? Or a selfish one?

He breathed a deep sigh of relief when he finally stepped outside after sitting through the rest of the meal in silence. He carried a bundle over his shoulders and his sword on his hip, hidden by his cloak.

A strong gust blowing down the street made him pull it tight across his chest. Needles pricked his nose and cheeks but as he walked the sun warmed his shoulders, easing the tension between them.

It wasn’t long before he noticed something very wrong.

Flower pots and paper lanterns decorated the windows and doorways of shops and half a dozen homes. Lines of small, triangle flags hung across the street in alternating red and green patterns.

A merchant cracked his whip and drove his wagon away from a pair of young men who carried crates into a shop under the scrutiny of an old man in an apron.

Women in long blue and green wool skirts hugged covered baskets close to their waists and idly chatted with each other, followed by a thick, savory aroma drifting from the bakery further up the street.

But that wasn’t what made him stop and hug the side of a brick wall.

Coming down the street toward him a man in a white and gold uniform lead several others in polished armor that made him squint if he stared.

A mother pulled her child along who pointed, eyes lit with curiosity and wonder.

As a boy he might have wanted to wear that uniform, but the sight of them marching down the street left him wanting to run as far away as he could.

Why were there soldiers in Falden? Could there already be a draft? Lord Silvertree would have mentioned it, but wouldn’t he have said something about this too?

He waited until they passed, then hurried down the narrow street until it split off. One side wrapping around the village, the other veering off into a stone stairway that crisscrossed down a slope into Falden’s lower market.

He slowed upon reaching the stairs and eyed the docks where a dozen boats of different sizes clogged Falden’s little harbor.

In a few days the village would hold a festival to celebrate the coming spring. A day of feasting followed by a day of competitions and more feasting with a lot of song and dance in between.

Merchants sailed up the Goldwater bringing all sorts of things you couldn’t find in the Rockwood valley. More importantly, those merchants liked to buy things as well.

He smiled, readjusting the straps that held the bundle firmly across his back. The Sirocco sat in the river’s deep, dark waters, moored alongside the other merchant ships.

That man had never missed a festival but seeing his ship suddenly lifted a weight from his chest he hadn’t previously been aware of.

The stairs dropped him into an open market where a dozen different tents lined one side of the square facing the docks.

It took only a quick second to find what he was looking for. Deep violet cloth made the tent’s roof and walls, thick enough to offer shade from the rising sun.

He ducked through a door made of multicolored beads strung together. As they clacked against each other a short oily man with dark brown skin greeted him.

Jem smiled widely through a thick, black curly beard.

“Saul, my boy!” The man clasped him by the shoulder, fingers laden with rings. “How are you? How is your family?”

Grinning, he clasped Jem by the shoulders in return. He loved Jem like the uncle he never had. As a young boy, he’d listen for hours as the merchant regaled him with stories of the old world beyond Falden and the Rockwood valley.

If there was anyone to blame for his day dreams of exploring the mountains of the Vangars and the white sands of the Kalanni, this man certainly had to shoulder most of it.

“Jem, you old rat! I can’t express how happy I am to see your ugly face again.”

Jem laughed deeply and patted his shoulder, guiding him further inside.

“Come, come! Fresh tea in the kettle. Would you care for some?”

“When have I ever said no to that?”

Jem laughed once more and led him to a small sectioned off corner in the back.

A polished kettle sat above a small burning stove. The merchant took out a pair of small glass cups and offered him one after pouring in them both.

He accepted it gratefully and stirred in a little sugar before blowing off steam rising from the dark liquid.

He had to hold back from immediately gulping it down. Sugar wasn’t an easy thing to come by and the anticipation breathed down his neck.

“Taren and I are doing well,” he continued after settling down on some cushions. “As is my mother. My father, on the other hand, is a different story.”

“Many apologies, my boy.” Jem said, ruefully shaking his head. “Allanir is a good man.”

“You have my thanks, old friend.”

He took a sip, careful not to burn his tongue, and sighed happily as he considered his next words with care.

“You’d have even more of my thanks if you could take a look at something for me.”

Jem raised his eyebrows questioningly. He reached behind him with one hand and settled his bundle next to the small wooden table set between them.

Curiosity spread over Jem’s face.

“This is what?” Jem asked, setting down his cup and leaning over to pick it up.

He unlaced the strings holding the top flaps together and peered inside.

“Is really what I think, boy?”

A smile spread across his bearded face. Realization dawning in his small, black eyes. He stuck in a jeweled hand and pulled out one of the furs inside.

“Is good you come to me. Yes! Dread bear is rare. People south would kill for this. Very smart, coming here.”

Jem took another sip of his tea before rising to his feet.

“Just wait. Enjoy the tea. Have some more. I will be right back.”

He left the small room and ducked back in several moments later bearing a small chest. With a comfortable sigh he settled back down on his cushions before flipping it open.

A small bit of pride settled around his shoulders when his jaw didn’t fall immediately into his lap. More silver than he’d ever seen in his life filled the little chest to the brim.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and met the merchant’s eyes.

Jem wasn’t showing off. Not in the way lord Albryte and his sons often would. This was how the Kobari haggled behind closed doors over something valuable.

He took another sip of tea to get an extra few moments to think. This could only mean Jem took his offer seriously.

Since no one else would value the fur as highly as Jem would, he wasn’t really worried about getting handed a bad deal. But Jem had also been the one to teach him how to haggle.

He would probably drink through at least another cup before they were done.

“You know, it wasn’t easy getting these furs,” he said casually. “Dire bears don’t just sit there and die without a fight. The danger alone makes them quite valuable.”

Of course that’s exactly how he got them.

Dread bears were viciously territorial monsters and highly aggressive by nature. If not for his brother stumbling upon the corpses of a few who’d killed each other, there was no way under the sun that he’d ever risk his life hunting a dread bear.

Thankfully Jem didn’t need to know that.

Jem smiled at him as he took a quick sip of tea. His eyes shined as if he saw right through him. How could a young man, barely even a cultivator, manage such a thing between just him and his brother? But the merchant never once pointed that out.

For the better part of an hour they went back and forth, often straying from the topic and coming back to it with a new offer.

He couldn’t help but feel like Jem was testing him. They eventually settled on a price that was much more than what he originally thought he’d walk away with.

Jem laughed.

“Rich man. What will you do?”

“Help my father,” he said without hesitation. Jem nodded with approval.

“You know, man does not get rich by giving away his wealth. But man’s life becomes rich by the happiness of those closest to him. Send Allanir my best regards.”

Jem raised his glass and took a sip.

“Ah, another thing,” Jem said. Almost as an afterthought. “That ring for sale?”

He glanced down at the ring on his left hand.

“This? It’s nothing special.”

“I would not call a ring ‘nothing special.’ I have an eye for this.” Jem held up a hand to his face and wiggled his ring laden fingers.

“I think you’re going blind, old man.” He chuckled nervously and hid his hand in his lap. “But thank you for the tea. It was refreshingly good.”

“Yes, yes,” Jem said with an easy smile. “Just don’t forget to visit this old man again. We need to share a proper drink of alcohol at feast. Stories I have aplenty for you.”

Jem retired to another room separated by violet cloth with the bundle of furs and the chest full of silver cradled in his arms. That was his cue to leave.

He pocketed his coin and drank the rest of his tea.

The market square felt pleasantly warmer now. The rising sun took away a lot of the morning chill. But not all of it. Winter was not yet a very distant memory.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to face the sun, enjoying the way its light tingled on his cheeks. Today was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

There was more than enough coin in his pocket to pay for the medicine this year. Perhaps even enough for next year as well.

He stretched his arms, fingers grasping for the sky, and gave a huge sigh of relief. He almost jumped when a strong hand suddenly griped his shoulder.

He jerked away but the hand refused to let go. Lord Albryte’s guard growled and spun him around, shoving him toward another.

Kalys Murk folded his thick arms and smiled unpleasantly.

“Come along, boy. The lord would like a word.”