The sun reflected off the horse troughs and warmed the hay fields in the old village of Glenfjerd. It was a long-standing tradition to send the boys of the village, on their sixteenth birthday, on a coming-of-age trek up the mountain of Asven. The mountain was close enough that the whole journey, on foot, rarely took longer than a week but usually six days. It was not common among the returned to brag about beating another's record because part of the tradition was to not talk about it.

"It only took me four days, sunrise to sunrise," Brahm bragged to the group of children. The fact of the matter was, four days ago, they weren't just children; they were his peer group.

Benj grew up with Brahm, but they were not friends as much as, perhaps, the closest in age in the nearest proximity. At fifteen years and eleven months old, Benj would be the next to travel to Mt. Asven.

"How was it?" He asked, expecting more than the "Oh fine," Brahm said in return.

"You know what I mean," Benj pressed. "Were there any wild animals? Did you pack enough food? Was the mountain... steep? You know, anything that will help me out when it's my turn?" He asked in seemingly one breath.

"I would love to help you out, kid. I really do. But you know the rule," Brahm said with a measured level of condescension. "We don't talk about it."

It was true; no one spoke about the trek. It was a tradition. You were chastised if you broke the unwritten rule that went back as far as Mt. Asven itself. Still, there were no repercussions as far as Benj knew about breaking the rule, at least a little bit to help someone you've known your whole life.

"Let's say that you didn't tell me anything but made small recommendations like 'Bring an extra blanket' or 'Don't eat the yellow berries' or anything," Benj said, trying to get any information he could.

"No, thanks." Brahm said, smiling with an amused look, "That would go against the spirit and intent of not talking about it. Besides, why would I try to help you beat the new village record?"

"No one cares about your self-proclaimed record," Benj said, exasperated. "There isn't even a record to keep. For all you know, someone beat your record fifty years ago, and no one ever bothered writing it down because it was irrelevant. Did someone write down your record?"

Brahm thought for a moment, or at least he appeared to be thinking. "If anyone had broken my record, someone would have told us about it."

Benj considered how to reframe his question.

"I have adult things to do," Brahm turned his back and walked away.

Benj was frustrated at the quality of his friends at times. He wished he had someone to share secrets, have deep discussions, or make up insults about Brahm with. He would even settle for shallow discussions. The village he lived in was feeling smaller and smaller every day.

Benj's full name was Benjos, with the adopted surname Baker. His mother was a barmaid who died giving birth to him. His father was said to be a red-haired musician who had played at the tavern passing through. His dark brown curls portrayed the fact that he favored his mother.

He was raised by the tavern owners. Not inside but outside the tavern his mom worked at before she died. Hungry and homeless, he found more food and warmth in places near the tavern than he did elsewhere. He was never permitted inside but found meals with full mugs of ale waiting for him on the back step every so often.

A baker in search of medicine for his wife noticed the young Benj. His wife told him to take the boy. The baker protested, but his wife was too weak to argue, and he relented. The baker's wife made him promise to take care of the boy. He promised, and she died.

Nine years later, Benjos Baker had learned to bake breads of every color, cakes, rolls, and tarts of every size and shape, with glazes, icings, creams, and honey. He had learned recipes he could throw together without measuring cups and make rolls so soft that they would fall to the countertop without making a sound. He could do all of this, but he would remain an apprentice to the old man Sephus until he was a "man." That is until he made the trek to the summit of Mt. Asven and returned alive.

Benj, considering his mortality as he walked back to the bakery, was greeted by a "Ho, Benjo, get your skinny behind back here and have a look!" Sephus yelled from the back.

"Sephus," he greeted.

"Master Sephus to you," he said, "You still have four months to address me properly."

"Less than one month," Benj corrected. "You're the one who decided my birthday was on the first of the year."

"Ahem," Sephus cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

He added, "You're the one who decided my birthday was on the first of the year, Master Sephus, you old coot."

"Now that's pretty good. Do you see how much better my name sounds when you pronounce it correctly?" Sephus said, tossing Benj a smooth black roll, "Take a look at that!"

Benj acted quickly, pulling a cloth off the counter to catch the flying roll. He learned at a young age that just because Sephus tosses something to you, it doesn't mean it won't scald your hands if you caught it.

"Oh, come now, it's been cool for a while," Sephus said behind laughing eyes. He was a head taller than Benj and had neatly cut hair around his tanned, bald head. He kept a long, unkempt beard that he would tuck into his shirt when eating or baking, however rare the latter occurred. His eyes were a cold blue that always seemed to say, "I might be an old man, but I'll outlive your children if you could find a woman dumb enough to make them with you."

Benj inspected the roll. It was smooth as glass and cool to the touch. "Dragon's bread?" He asked, not because he wasn't sure, but because he wasn't sure why. Dragon's bread was only really eaten during the new fall festival.

"I think we should sell them at the festival of challenges," Sephus said, filling his tankard to the brim with a dark amber ale.

The festival of challenges was really called the "winter festival." Mixed with food and music, the event had many nicknames centered on the fact that it was entirely overshadowed by competition. People competed over baking, racing, farming, husbandry, or famously, among other things, "feats of strength," which is why it was also referred to as the Winter Feats.

Feats of strength were ways a man or woman could gain or lose seemingly worthless but cherished titles. Some titles included the village's strongest, fastest, most agile, or best ax thrower. Every year, a claim to some obscure title from the previous year would spark a new competition. Random titles such as 'farthest to walk on hands,' ‘farthest to throw a wheel,' or 'highest to jump' were won and lost. It was not uncommon to see a group of people hanging from tree branches or balancing broomsticks on their foreheads to win any title whatsoever. Possibly not as crucial as a title was the money won and lost in bets over various competitions.

"What do you think?" Sephus asked. He was either asking about selling them at the Winter Festival, the quality of his work, or both.

"In truth, I hate the idea," Benj said, tossing the smooth black roll into the air. "They're complicated-" The black roll hit the floor with a thwack! "They cost a lot to make, and there's no guarantee that people will want to buy them outside of the First Harvest."

He picked up the cracked roll off the ground, ripped it apart, and pulled a piece of dark bread from the middle. "I think we should stick to ginger sticks or cinnamon apples or something," he said and put the morsel into his mouth.

"Well?" The eager Sephus asked.

"It's good, but…"

"But what?"

"It's missing something," he said, taking the ale out of Sephus' hands and taking a deep drink. "There we go, not bad. Not as good as mine, but not bad."

"Good," Sephus said and pointed around. "Clean this up; I'm going out. I left the recipe out for you if you can't think of a better idea".

"If we need extra spices for the dragon's bread, the spice merchant is coming tomorrow," Benj recalled.

"Good thinking Benjo, take this," he handed him a silver talent "take inventory tonight and get what you think we'll need. I want the change."

"There won't be any," Benj said, knowing any change left over, no matter how much, would be just enough for a well-earned pint afterward. He would need to barter the price of the spices down first, but he was confident it would go well, like so many times before.

Bakeries made good customers for spice merchants. If more than one spice merchant made rounds through the same village, they would tend to offer better deals. Unfortunately, only one made rounds in his village, and Benj knew that it didn't hurt to show up with hot cinnamon rolls. Sephus had always said it's bad for businesses to give products away; he had no idea how wrong he was.

The next morning, Benj woke up before sunrise and started his morning routine. He got out of bed, put his trousers and boots on, and created a fire in the hearth. He placed the kettle containing a mixture of water and char leaves that had been soaking all night over the fire. It was the simple pleasures in life that made the unceasing work of a baker more bearable. He gathered some food scraps and then went outside to chop wood, placing the food he found in a small brass dish outside the door.

A moment later, a fat, homeless dog rounded the corner to find his daily breakfast exactly where it should be.

"Good morning Chubbs," Benj greeted the dog who was already eating as loud as ever. "Sorry, there isn't a lot today; I'll see what I can do later."

The dog didn't seem to care but wagged his tail once in acknowledgment.

Benj walked towards the wood shack where his ax was hanging. The ax was worn, but he kept it well by sharpening it once a week. He swung the heavy ax with ease from years of experience. Sephus was too old to chop wood, but it seemed he had always been too old to do anything.

By the time the sun peeked over Mt. Asven, Benj was covered with beads of sweat and ready to bathe in the cool river when he heard a familiar sound. It was the low rumble of a single-horse-drawn carriage. Benj moved to get a better view of the road. The sunlight peeked onto the westward road, highlighting kicked-up dust and something that he hadn't expected for several hours—the spice merchant.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

His ax dropped several feet from its proper place, and he ran inside. His cinnamon rolls were figuratively and literally his bread and butter, but he hadn't started them, and the spice merchant was already pulling up. He had gotten nearly double the number of supplies for the same price in the past for the small bribe that took the form of hot, fluffy round rolls covered in cinnamon and a honey-cream glaze. There was no time to lose.

In the kitchen, a fire grew. It needed to be hot enough to warm the oven but then die down to coals for a slower cooking and more even temperature. Too hot, and you'll have burnt dough. He spread out four of his smallest pieces of wood. The fire grew. Next, he splashed his hands in water and washed them with a dark green block of sulfur soap up to his forearms. When his hands were clean, he dried them with a white cloth. Sweat was still forming on his body, making his skin slick. He took his damp cloth and wiped his face; there wouldn't be time to bathe until after he made his purchase.

Two bowls landed on the countertop. A moment later, two wooden lids covering the flower and sugar flew up with a streaking plume of powder. An egg cracked and emptied simultaneously. The two large bowls filled and mixed with a flourish. With no time to measure, his hands became the scales, scoops, and measuring cups. He needed warm water. It was common knowledge that water heats slower if you're in a hurry. He would have to cut the process short, "Char leaf tea!" he said out loud. It was hot by now. All he had to do was cool it down a little bit. He poured a measure into the bowl and stirred. He then took a jar of wild yeast that had been nurtured since he was alive and scooped a portion inside.

There wouldn't be enough time for the dough to rise fully. Panic prickled at the back of his neck. No, he would have to make something else. Scones. The batter needed adjustment. A cloud formed around him like sawdust in a carpentry shop as he worked.

Char leaf had a bold flavor; it also made you more alert. Drink too much, and your heart would pound in your chest just sitting down. It could have been a dumb idea to add it, but it was too late now. The only way out was forward. To see how the flavors would pair, he poured a cup of the tea and added cinnamon and honey. He took a sip; it was different. This all happened in a matter of heartbeats. He formed scones in triangular shapes and put them on a metal baking sheet.

The fire was burning higher than optimum despite the few logs he used. He spread out the fire, so only the coals were heating the bottom of the oven. That would have to do. The scones went in. He needed time; he wasn't sure how much he had. Hopefully, everyone in town needed spices too, or at the very least salt and dried peppers.

Outside, he saw the town gather around the wagon to make their purchases. He still had time. Then he noticed the village wives walking away, almost pulling their husbands behind them. That was odd. Usually, the town stayed and gathered news, stories, and gossip from neighboring towns. The traveling merchants doubled as a news source that didn't seem to be of importance at the moment. Fortunately, Brahm and a few others were still there, inadvertently buying him more time. A half-hour went by, and the others had left. The merchant was waiting for the obligatory ten minutes after the last customer moved on before moving forward, making his way beyond the trees surrounding the bakery. Time was money for them. The less time a merchant stays in one place, the more places they can sell their goods.

I only need three more minutes, Benj thought. He grabbed two tankards and filled them with the piping hot tea. The merchant would undoubtedly appreciate it for the journey ahead. He opened the oven and used the long wooden spatula to pull out the scones. With no time to taste them, he wrapped them in the bakery brown paper and placed them in a basket. He took the tankards, set everything down, put on a shirt, regained his valuable bribes, and was out the door in time to hear "Hyah!" and see a single brown horse pull the spice cart sluggishly towards the long journey ahead.

"Ho, there! Merchant!" He called out. No response. He could have run if he wasn't holding two tankards filled to the brim with scalding tea. "Stop, I have a lot of money!" He called louder. Something about the word 'money' carries farther than other words like, perhaps, 'help' or 'my house is on fire.'

The cart came to a stop right outside the town's perimeter, and a young woman peered out from the front of the carriage at him.

"Hello there. Sorry, I'm late!" Benj apologized as he ambled over to her.

"Hello, you almost missed me there." Her voice carried to Benj as he made his fast and level walk towards the cart. He arrived to see a girlish young woman with a long travel coat draping over a tight leather vest showing more skin than he usually got from the women in town.

She had messy black hair, almond brown eyes and a single dark spot above lightly colored lips. There was something about her poorly cut hair that intrigued him. She had an unrefined quality that was somehow alluring. The closer Benj got, the more fascinated he became with her.

"Here," he said, handing her the scones and tankard of tea, "I brought you breakfast for your time."

She reached out and took the basket. She investigated the contents with the gentle sound of brown paper crinkling. He handed her the tea.

"Thank you," she said, slightly taken aback. "What an unexpected surprise."

"I thought you were John," Benj replied, "Usually, he's our spice merchant. He would eyeball me sideways if I came to him without my famous baked goods."

They both took a sip of the tea. She would have politely declined back home, but these parts were safe, and—"Char leaf," she said with a smile—she needed it.

"I soaked the leaves all night," Benj said, feeling giddy and self-aware. "I feel like I should try one of these before you do," he said reaching into the basket and removing one of the scones. "It was a new idea, not sure if it was a good one."

He took a bite.

She also took a scone, blew gently, and took a small bite. Her almond eyes got big with surprise. "You put it in the roll?"

"It's a scone, and yes, I've had worse ideas," he said, taking another bite and visibly relaxed at the realization that it wasn't terrible.

"It's delicious," she said, "It's like a cinnamon tea with honey. Anyway, what can I get for you?"

"I've made a list." He handed it to her. She reached out and took his hand, tilting the list towards her.

Her touch was warm, and it sent tingles through his arm. Stay focused, he told himself; it was the only way he would get a good deal. The second this salesperson realized she had any power over him, she would bleed him dry. He desperately resisted blushing, but she was looking at the list—close call.

"You can have it," he said, placing the list in her hand. "I don't really need it anymore."

She got to work opening drawers and cabinets and taking out sacks of spices. She bent down to pick up the scale, which revealed a strange necklace. It was a cord of rope holding a square metal plate with runes etched into it. It was not an elegant piece like women would typically wear, but bulky and crude.

Noticing the direction he was staring, he immediately looked away, facing up, left, and finally down at his shoes. "So, are you officially taking over for John?"

"My father is feeling ill, so I came in his place." she said, not looking up at him.

"John's your father?" He asked.

"Last time I checked," she replied.

"I hope he gets better," he said.

"Thanks, I'll let him know you asked about him," she said. "This is quite a tall order for such a young guy," She spoke, still measuring small piles of spices. "What do you do with all of it?"

"I own the bakery just over there," he lied. "There's a big festival coming up."

She stopped what she was doing, looked into his eyes, and then ambled towards him. "You," she placed her finger on his chest, "own a bakery?"

"Yes," he said, wondering what emotion would be more prevalent on his face, guilt for lying to her or something else? "I inherited it; it's a small-" he made inarticulate hand gestures.

"You're like fifteen, right?" She asked innocently

"Seventeen," he lied again. The truth was he didn't know exactly how old he was, but he knew he wasn't seventeen. He also didn't know why he was lying so much and trying to impress her; there was already a girl that he liked. "How old are you?" He asked.

"Old enough," she said, turning and starting to open drawers in the cart until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a small wooden box and removed the lid, revealing two separate compartments, each with a small, round stone inside.

"These are touchstones," She explained, bringing the box closer. There are different kinds, but these heat up when they touch." she moved closer and put one rock in each of his hands.

"Relics?" It was half question; the other half was painfully aware of her touch and how close she was standing.

"That's right," she said, taking each of his hands in hers and moving them slowly together.

"What is your name?" He asked, absorbed in the fact that her hands were holding his.

"Lucia," she said with the hint of a smile.

"Lucia," he said with a warmth in his hands, "That's a very pretty naaaaaaaahhh!!" His hands were hot. They felt like the first time he caught a roll from Sephus. Benj let the touchstones fall to the ground to blow on his hands.

"I told you," Lucia laughed at him, "They get hot!" She tested the coolness of the stones on the ground before picking them up. "I found out how hot they get the hard way, too."

"Wow," he said, trying to recover from the embarrassment, "they heat up really fast. Where did you get them?"

"I found them," she replied, touching her necklace, "I'll sell them to you for two gold royals."

Did the rune on her necklace just glow? He felt the urge to impress her by saying yes, but he simply did not have the money. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline. How much for the order?"

"A talent and three marks, or fifty-three marks." she said, taking a sip of the tea. His heart sank. Lucia must have used the scales to an exact measure. Her father would have given him extra and still charged him less.

She must have seen the look on his face. She walked up to him, holding out the sack of spices, and said, "But because you brought me breakfast, I'll only charge you fifty." Her eyes glittered at this, and he felt his emotions pull in different directions. He was upset because he would have otherwise gotten his entire order for less than the talent she was charging, but he didn't want to seem poor or miserly. He reached for the coin bag and handed her the coins.

He watched as Lucia made a quick entry into her ledgers and pocketed the money. "I would love to stay and chat, but I have to be going," she said. "It was my pleasure doing business with you." She held out the empty basket.

"And I, you," he replied, taking the basket. The merchant retracted her hand, finished a ledger entry, and climbed up to her seat.

Benj stood dumbfounded as he heard her feminine voice, "Hyah!" and slowly moved the carriage forward. That was the most he had ever spent on spices, and it felt odd not signing for the purchase. Every time he did business with John, he had always signed the ledger. A thought occurred to him. He sprinted toward the carriage.

"Lucia!" He called, and the carriage stopped.

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," she handed him back a half-empty tankard.

He dumped the contents and placed the tankard in his basket, "I should probably sign for the purchase."

"It's okay, really," she insisted. "My father is just old-fashioned. They don't really need double verification for taxes anymore."

"I better anyway," he said. "Just in case."

"Oh, it's fine, I'm sure," she said.

Did she look worried?

"No, I insist," he said, holding up his hand. From a very young age, Benj was taught various ways a swindler could swindle. Sephus had inadvertently taught him how to be a criminal if he wanted. But he hated the idea of stealing and loathed anyone who took part in such criminal acts.

"Here," she said, reluctantly handing the ledgers over.

Benj opened the last page and saw his entire order was correct, except for the bottom price, which showed 'twenty-five marks' for the purchase, which was only half a talent. Next to the order, her signature swooped with two initials next to some illegible scribbles, presumably his own. Before he had a chance to speak, she cut in.

"I'm sorry," she said, close to tears, "Just listen. My dad owes some very bad people a large sum of money. They hurt him and took me as payment. The only reason why I'm out here and not in a whorehouse is because they don't know anything about spices and need me to sell them. I'm only trying to repay my father's debt and buy him medicine."

"By overcharging, skimming, and effectively stealing from people like me?" He asked, raising his voice and not waiting for a response. "I'm sure the village constable won't mind hearing how you're using that relic of yours to get people to go along with your little deceit."

She looked shocked and instinctively touched her necklace. "How did you know?"

"How did I know?" He repeated indignantly. "It takes longer than five minutes for me to fall in love with someone."

"You love me?" She asked, wiping away a tear that threatened to remove a streak of dirt from her face.

"No, it was the relic," he gestured toward her necklace, "Like how it's making me feel now even though the thought of liking a thief repels me."

"It's not doing anything right now," she said, "I'm not even touching it. Also, it doesn't make people fall in love with you; it just allows people to be persuaded."

Benj looked confused.

She hopped down from the carriage, placed half a talent coin into his hand, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Here," she said, sliding the box of touchstones under his arm, "They're mine to give, just like my heart." Then she got up on her carriage and rode off without another word.

Benj stood there dumbfounded as he watched her ride away. Should he try to stop her? He watched her go.

On the way home, Benj had no idea what happened. He had a half talent, all the spices he would need for the Winter Festival, and a rather interesting relic, or rather two. He had also gotten a kiss by the spice merchant's daughter. Thief or not, it was probably good luck.