The merchant caravan came just after dawn, trundling up the northern road like a snake of color and creaking wood. Brightly dyed banners fluttered from each wagon, colors dulled by age and dust, but still proud. A patchwork of voices, bartering calls, and animal noise spilled out from their arrival.

Townsfolk, all carrying items and coin, began to emerge from their homes and shops.

It was trading day with the wandering merchants.

Elara stood near the orphanage gate, the carved box clutched tight in her hands. The brooch rested inside, nestled in velvet so worn the threads came loose at the corners.

The children had all been given chores, and she'd made sure none would follow her. This was something she had to do alone. No regrets would remain.

She made her way toward the square, walking with even steps despite the knot in her stomach. She passed the baker's boy, two old men muttering over a rusty scythe, and a pair of children squabbling over a painted wooden top. Everything looked normal and ordinary. But her breath wouldn't steady. She was nervous, despite her looks.

One of the caravan wagons had already set up a large side panel, converting it into a display shelf. Bottled dyes, cloth bolts, folded tools. Beside it, a velvet-draped table stood beneath a tan canopy. Behind it stood a merchant in a fine maroon coat, sleeves embroidered with silver thread. His beard was neatly combed, and rings glittered on three of his fingers. It made him look half-dandy, half-mage, but fully rich and loaded.

He noticed her approach and gave a practiced bow of the head. "Something of worth to trade, my lady?"

She didn't bother correcting him. She simply lifted the carved box and opened it, showing it to him.

Inside, the brooch caught the mid-morning sun.

Its silver was faded, kissed faintly by time's green patina, but the craftsmanship remained exquisite, filigree with delicate ivy spirals surrounding a central amber core. The gem shimmered faintly, warm as sunlit honey in autumn. As Elara touched it, the core began to glow.

The merchant's demeanor shifted subtly. "May I?"

Elara nodded.

He reached out, carefully lifting it between two fingers.

"A Light enchantment," he murmured. "Interesting... Very old work. This was passed through family?"

"My mother's," Elara said.

"Ah." His smile faded into something more respectful. "A good piece. Sentimental value, I take it?"

She hesitated. Then nodded once.

The merchant turned it over again, thumb brushing the setting. His eyes moved up and down, left to right. It was clear he was using an appraisal skill. "It's not a combat artifact. Not bonded to anything specific either. But the work… this is fine silver. And this amber…" he leaned in slightly. "That core pulse means there's still latent charge in it. Might even be enough to repurpose the piece. A caster could bind a spell to it. This is quite valuable."

Silently, his eyes scanned Elara before turning his attention back to the relic. His eyes focused on the item.

He set it down gently in its velvet bed.

"I'll offer forty gold for it."

Elara's lips parted. She hadn't expected anywhere near that much.

That would cover the current debt cycle, plus next winter's fuel. She could repair the cellar, insulate the sleeping quarters, maybe even take in one or two more children from the waitlist, something she hadn't dared to do in years. If not that, then she could at least keep ownership of the orphanage for the next couple of years, as long as she was frugal.

Her mind told her to accept, but her fingers refused to move.

She looked down at the brooch. The way the amber still glowed faintly in her presence. The way it seemed… to know her. A refusal to leave made clear.

She remembered her mom's voice, "This belonged to your grandmother. It's not just jewelry, its a symbol. It's the kind of thing you only give up when you know what really matters. To a loved one, when the time is right."

Elara clenched her jaw.

What really mattered now wasn't memory. It was survival. Not hers, but for the children.

She nodded slowly. "I accept."

The merchant gave a small smile, warm, polite, but also unreadable. Merchants always had a certain 'look' on them.

He reached beneath the table to a pouch stitched from dark leather and tied with red string. It was a trader's discretion-purse, the kind used in public settings to keep coin exchange private. He untied it and quietly slipped a few coin stacks inside without letting them clink. Once finished, he handed the pouch over with both hands, a subtle nod of ceremony.

Elara weighed it in her palm. It felt heavy. Too heavy for her to carry casually; she tucked it quickly beneath her coat, hidden and close.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Of course," he replied. "Pleasure doing business with you."

She gave a nod and turned away. She didn't want to linger.

The path back to the orphanage seemed longer somehow, like each step pulled her further from something she hadn't yet named. She passed a few neighbors, but waved to none. When she reached the gate, she paused only briefly before stepping inside.

She went straight to the pantry, crouched low, and pried up the floorboard beneath the rice sacks. The pouch slid in easily. For now, it would stay there. Until the next payment was due.

Later, she stood in her room, staring at the old drawer where the brooch used to rest. The velvet cloth still lay inside, flat and empty.

She didn't touch it.

She simply closed the drawer, went to the wash basin, and rinsed her face.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn't look relieved. She… didn't look like anything. It was her face, that was for sure. But was it the same one that her mother always saw? Or had it changed? She couldn't recognize herself anymore.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Meanwhile, minutes later in the square…

The merchant polished the brooch with a soft cloth, holding it up once more to the light. The pulse within the amber was brighter now, responding to its new holder.

He smiled faintly to himself.

"Forty gold," he murmured. "Steal of the season."

From beside him, one of the wagon-hands leaned in. "What's it really worth, boss?"

The merchant slid the brooch into a padded satchel, then latched it shut. "Appraised something like it this spring in Merrilake. Northern channel price: one hundred gold, minimum—an entire platinum."

The wagon-hand whistled. "But you really bought it for forty? What if she finds out?"

"This is a small town. What is she going to do? Put me to interrogation?" the merchant replied, turning to count bolts of dyed cloth. "Besides, I'm the only appraiser here. Who's going to correct me? The town priest?"

The wagon-hand chuckled. "You're cold."

"I'm rich," the merchant said, leaning over, smiling. "'Sides. Not like I did anything wrong. I offered, she accepted."

The sun was low by the time Pell returned to the village square.

He'd spent most of the afternoon restocking the coop roof and trading dried sage for spare kindling. Nothing fancy. Just work—and he preferred it that way. Life made sense when it moved in lines. One job, then the next. One foot in front of the other.

But he'd overheard something about a traveling merchant wagon arriving that morning, and curiosity itched at him. He'd already forgotten it was that time of year when the merchants came.

"Good seed comes through caravans like these," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Not that cabbage-laced nonsense Barlon tried to sell last season."

He reached the far edge of the square and scanned the remaining wagons. Most were closed up for the night. The bright banners had been rolled down, and the scent of roasted nuts and oil hung low in the cooling air.

At the far end of the row, beneath a lantern hung from a crooked beam, two figures were seated at a makeshift table outside a tavern. One of them wore a merchant's maroon coat—the kind tailored for impression rather than comfort. The other was a squat man with a half-braided beard and the look of a local hunter.

Pell walked over, but something about what they were talking about caused him to pause. Instinctively, he subtly changed his path and leaned his back against the outside wall of the tavern, listening in.

"—whole thing pulsed like a live ember," the merchant was saying, gesturing with a small motion. "I nearly laughed when she handed it over."

The hunter took a swig from his mug. "You paid what, thirty?"

"Forty." The merchant's smile gleamed. "A gesture of kindness. Honestly, I wish I offered 30 at first. Maybe even 20. Lady looked desperate enough."

"And the value?"

"One hundred—an entire platinum," the man replied flatly. "Maybe more. I've seen northern channel brokers pay a platinum for similar filigree, if the enchantment's stable. The piece she gave me? I can flip that thing at Silvermarch for triple."

"Shit," the hunter chuckled. "You robbed her blind."

"She walked to my table, opened the box, and agreed to the price. I didn't even bargain her down."

"Who was she? Some rich noble?"

"Out here? You're joking," he said, raising an eyebrow at him. "No. It was a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Auburn hair, green eyes. Wore a coat too long for her shoulders, but I caught a white dress under it. Nurse, maybe? Matron of some kind. Seems like she was trying to stay hidden."

"You not afraid of low-balling her that much? What if she finds out?"

"You're full of jokes, huh? Love your humor." The merchant tapped the table twice, then leaned back. "No. And frankly, I don't care. Besides, this town's too backwoods to question anything. No appraisers. No merchants' guild officials. Just proud, starving folk who think silver still means something."

The merchant continued. "Said her name was… Lara? Mara? Something like that. Didn't really catch it. She had quite the face though, y'know? I should have tried my luck. Maybe I could ask around for her and bring a buddy or two." He chuckled, the vulgarity of his laughter the same poison as his words.

Pell felt something click into place in his chest.

The hunter snorted again. "Luck? You're lucky someone doesn't gut you in the night. No way what you did would fly at any other town."

"At any other town, with a merchant. I'm leaving at dawn tomorrow. They won't even remember my name."

The two laughed, their voices soft beneath the flickering lamplight.

Pell stood at the edge of the wall, hands curled into fists; his body hidden from view.

His mind tried to turn away, to justify it. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe there were a dozen people in town who had handed over some brooch or bauble. Someone named Mara that he just didn't know.

But he did know.

He knew better.

He saw it in the way the merchant described her. The way he said she walked up, box in her hand. A white dress underneath a large cloak? He knew of one person with such a wardrobe.

It had to be Elara. She had sold something. Something valuable. Enough for this bastard to grin about. Enough that she had to be desperate.

And he hadn't known. Gaius' words about Amberdean raises the taxes on the orphanage came to mind.

That had to be it.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn it all."

He turned from the wall and toward the side alley, circling the wagons. No one was around to spot him, luckily. The merchant and hunter would probably be engrossed in conversation a bit longer.

Pell inspected the wagons. The merchant had two. One with stacked bolts of cloth and cookware. The other, smaller, was covered by a deep navy tarp, tied down with cord and gilded rope. Pell crouched low and kept to the shadows, glancing once toward the tavern.

They were still laughing.

He slipped behind the smaller wagon, cut the rope, and lifted the tarp just enough to peer inside.

Cloth-wrapped parcels and sealed jars. Tucked into the corner was a pair of satchels tied in colored twine.

He didn't think, his hands moving on impulse. If she needed money, then he'd just have to take something worthwhile. But he had to be fast. Take whatever was easily available. Surely, whatever the merchant had was all valuable goods, big or small.

Two small bags and a narrow book bundle came free in his hands, tucked swiftly into the folds of his coat. He dropped the tarp and walked—no, more accurately: strolled—toward the edge of town.

No one stopped him.

No one even noticed.

No one cared about the man named Pell Meltere, even if they saw him.

The road was darker now, the sun bleeding its last into the clouds above the forest. He walked the long track back to his shack with nothing but the sound of frogs in the distance and wind brushing the tall grass.

By the time he reached home, the stars were out.

He shut the door behind him and lit the lamp, the flame sputtering to life with a soft pop. His small home smelled of hay and dried leeks. The floor was swept, but the furniture was crooked. A single bed. Two shelves. A desk fashioned from an old barn door.

He set the bundles on the desk.

The first bag contained dried nuts and three coils of corded twine—useful, but nothing extravagant. The second held some merchant tags and tokens, likely for marking goods. The token could probably be used somewhere important. That could net him something good if different merchants came by.

And the last?

He unwrapped it. Within were two books, both thick articles. One bound in brown leather, the other in a deep muted blue.

He blinked at the titles.

"Ledger & Trade: A Beginner's Guide to Merchanteering"

"Commerce Through Contracts: The Silver Tongue's Path"

Pell stared.

His first instinct was to laugh. Or maybe to curse at the pitiful items he had stolen. But instead, he sat down.

He opened the brown book, flipping through the pages. Melly had taught him to read, which he was now thankful for.

The margins were filled with tiny scrawl. They weren't printed letters, but personal notes.

"Never accept silver without bite-test." "Barter first on low-day, when food's scarce." "Farmers always undervalue seed, especially wild-root."

His eyes scanned the lessons, the diagrams, the hand-sketched drawings of weights and scales. Tricks of trade. Routes through the Vale. Appraisal indicators without the skill.

Pell didn't even realize how long he sat there reading. Or how, for the first time in weeks, his breath didn't feel like a weight behind his ribs.

He looked again at the title.

Ledger & Trade.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He still hadn't a class. The only ones available to him were combat classes that would most likely get him killed, like rogue and assassin. But books—they were a method of class ascension. Enough knowledge to help push yourself through the threshold.

If she's hurting that much for money… then…

Pell leaned forward, taking another look at the two guidebooks.

"Guess this harvest isn't that bad after all…"

End

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