A beautiful melody woke me up at dawn.

A gentle lute’s strumming reverberated across the bedroom. My eyes opened to the tune of the slow symphony. The sound came from above, past the timber ceiling and faded paint. Had a bard rented a room above mine?

What a sad song, I thought as I emerged from my slumber with a woman’s arms around my neck. Each note carried weight. The melody invited me to a journey of tears and sorrow. Not the best way to start one’s morning. It’s beautiful though.

The sun’s rays filtered through the window and cast a dim light onto the whitewashed walls. My bedroom was small, though cozy; a modest sanctuary for tired sailors or weary passengers waiting for a ship. The Tawny Mermaid wasn’t the most luxurious establishment by the docks, but it made up for its lack of accommodations with additional services.

Two dock whores snored lightly in the bed beside me. I rarely paid for sex, but it took me two days to reach Tradewind from Ermeline even with a horse prepared. I was in the mood to celebrate Sforza’s death, and I managed to negotiate a group reduction with the inn. Two for the price of one. It had been worth the coin.

Perhaps I should buy this place. I silently emerged from the bed, took care not to wake up the girls, and then moved to open the window. The fresh breeze blew on my face and the lute melody above grew stronger. It could make some good money with some repairs and better management.

My room offered an impeccable view of the riverbank outside. Located at the confluence of the Riverland Federation’s major waterways, Tradewind was the country’s unofficial capital and commerce center; and it showed. The port was busier than a beehive, with ships from all corners of Pangeal and beyond jockeying for space along the docks. Galleons carrying crates of manufactured goods back to the Everbright Empire floated next to Iremian galleys flooding Fire Island spices into the city’s markets. Merchants haggled over vibrant dresses woven in other cities of the Federation or precious gems imported from the Stonelands, sailors shouted at one another to unfurl sails quicker, and hurried travelers raced back to the quickest ferry. The wind carried a cacophony of a dozen tongues spoken with ten-thousand voices, alongside the smell of exotic plants, foreign flavors, and the scent of commerce. You couldn’t make a step in Tradewind without stumbling on an opportunity.

I would fit right at home in this city, but duty called. Perhaps I would come back after completing my father’s last request. Tradewind produced more magnates than any other city in the north. Perhaps I could join the club.

“A copper for the morning news!” A twelve, maybe thirteen, year old boy called out from the cobblestone street below my window. He carried a pack of paper sheets under his arm. “Archfrost’s prince reveals himself the new Knight! Don’t miss the news from the Dailywind!”

My lips curved into a smile. I’d dropped off my incriminating documents at the printing press yesterday, so I expected my revelations to be on the front page. Perhaps the truth would make enough noise to stand next to speculations about the heroes.

“Ermeline is painted red!” the boy shouted to whoever would listen. “The duke's court massacred to a man!”

The lute melody above quickened as if on cue, and my smile faded away. “Boy!” I shouted at him from my window on the second floor, quickly grabbing my purse. “I’ll take one!”

“Sure, Mister!” He folded a newspaper into a scroll and tossed it to me; I flipped a coin below, which he caught with a slick hand. “Thank thee kindly!”

I quickly unfolded the newspaper and read the words printed on its surface. The lion’s share of the first page was dedicated to the revelation that Roland Chernoglav, Archfrost’s underage crown-prince, had been identified as the new Knight; one of the seven great classes. Although it was a momentous event for my homeland, the day’s second topic caught my full attention: the slaughter of Ermeline’s nobility.

“Last Mageday morning, the city of Ermeline woke up to a gruesome sight,” I read, the ink fresh on my fingers, “the blood of its rulers. Duke Francesco Ermeline was found dead in his estate’s private gambling den, alongside Baron Viridis, Count Lefell and the entire city council. Guards, who were tasked to stand outside while their employers conducted their business, opened the doors on the morrow when they became suspicious of the silence–”

I could picture the scene. The Duke liked to invite nobles to his estate to participate in secret gatherings, ranging from drunken gambling parties to orgies mixed with political debates. The city’s rulers could only do their job properly when inebriated, though they liked to discuss backroom deals too. The deeds happening behind closed doors would give priests a heart attack—I knew, since Sforza bragged about attending a few—so the Duke forbade outsiders from entering his private quarters unless invited. A hired killer had exploited this tendency to murder him and his entire inner circle. The watch suspected a link with Thief-Taker General Sforza’s sudden disappearance, though that one was on me.

I wouldn’t shed a tear over those corrupt parasites—Duke Ermeline and Sforza were cut from the same cloth—but the massacre’s sheer suddenness gave me pause. The guards didn’t hear a sound, and none of the victims showed any wounds. As far as autopsies were concerned, they simply dropped dead.

Either they suffered from mass poisoning… or the Assassin had paid them a visit.

I now knew which vassal class landed in Ermeline. Whoever gained the Assassin’s power immediately put it to good use. My anonymous tips about the city’s corruption, briefly mentioned in the article, were only the cherry on top of the bloody cake. I couldn’t even be mad at it; the world would be a better place without Ermeline’s former leadership.

Still, this event bothered me greatly. What could motivate a hero to murder so many? Come to think of it, how did Sforza end up with a cursed coin in the first place? Could someone from the city’s nobility have given it to him? Maybe I was being paranoid, but my gut told me something foul brewed in the background.

Poor Mersie, I thought. Her lover was among the victims. At least I’d spared her the hassle of dealing with Sforza. What did she say again? That she had something to do in the city before joining me in Snowdrift?

I wondered if I would end up seeing Mersie again soon. As for the Assassin’s identity, Eris was bound to pay me a visit sooner or later after completing her hero tour. I could simply ask her then.

By the time I finished dressing up, the musician above had stopped playing the lute and my bedmates had woken up. “Leaving so soon, stranger?” one of the ladies—Evelyne, I think her name was?—asked after stretching her arms. “You could stay a tiny bit longer, you know…”

“Sorry gals, the boat won’t wait for me.” I tossed them each an extra silver on my way out. “But it was a pleasure.”

“Come back whenever,” the girl replied upon catching my coin. I might actually take her up on it one day.

I left the Tawny Mermaid and walked towards the ferry. I walked under the shadow of towering warehouses, each bearing a trading guild’s emblem, and through crowds gathering around food stalls. I kept an eye on my purse all the way to my dock. Pickpockets abounded in these places. I took a moment to listen to the word on the street, to observe the moored ships, and to catch the city’s ambiance. The absence of Seukaian ships attested to the continued Shinkokan embargo on their goods, and Iremian merchants complained of pirates growing bolder in their depredations.

“The so-called ‘pirate queen’, Neferoa, she’s a hero,” I heard a fisherman tell a sailor shopping for goods. “She bewitches women and turns men into her harem slaves.”

“She wouldn’t be a hero if she did that,” his customer replied with a chuckle. “Only the Knight has been found so far. I hope we get the Mage though. Nobody would mess with the Fed with that one on our side.”

I tugged at the glove hiding my mark. As expected, speculations on heroes were plentiful. Everyone wondered which country would get whom. It would change many things. Many were already saying that the Archfrostian crown prince being chosen as the Knight meant the four artifacts had picked his side in the civil war. I better keep my identity secret for now, lest I become a pawn in someone’s game.

Planks creaked under my feet as I approached the Archfrostian ferry dock. A bulky galley awaited there. Its carved wood bow gleamed gray in the sunlight. Archfrostian witchcrafters infused their vessels with metal essence, allowing harvested bark to break through ice while remaining light enough for the wind to push sails onward. Some managed to travel all the way to the Winter Sea, the world’s coldest ocean.

“We need to get onboard!” I heard a woman shout as I approached the wooden ramp. “Please, I need that job.”

“A silver per head,” a man answered. A sailor blocked access to the ship to two unlucky passengers, a redheaded woman and what appeared to be her young son. “The end.”

I wouldn’t have paid the scene any mind if I didn’t suddenly feel a strange shiver down my spine when I briefly gazed at the woman. I frowned at her in confusion. She was tall and sturdy, with a weathered face and thick arms that betrayed experience with hard manual labor. Her unruly, fiery hair had been hastily cut right above her broad shoulders and her fierce emerald eyes brimmed with frustration. I would put her somewhere in her thirties, ten years older than me.

The equipment she carried on her told me much about her. A leather apron covered her soot-tainted linen blouse. A heart-shaped wood pendant, crafted with care, hung from her neckline. She packed a travel bag full of tools including chisels, portable vises, and tongs; alongside a sledgehammer strong enough to shatter bone and steel alike. A blacksmith.

She felt familiar, though I couldn't put a finger on why. I never crossed paths with her in the past, or at least I didn’t remember it. I didn’t feel anything when I glanced at the scrawny child following her like a shadow; the familial resemblance was obvious even to onlookers. The boy couldn’t be older than eight, with unkempt red hair, freckles, fearful blue eyes, and dirty clothes with holes in them. His shoes looked too big for his feet, and the bag holding the whetstone he carried was too heavy for his arms.

I immediately recognized their type. Poor people looking for work. I wondered why a blacksmith would seek to move from the Federation to Archfrost though. I would have assumed that she could find clients in Tradewind easily enough. I wondered if she was returning to her homeland like me, but her accent sounded clearly Riverlandian.

“I don’t have the coin on me,” she pleaded with the sailor. “But I swear, we can pay your captain back on the return trip later–”

“Later means never, lass.” The sailor, a rugged worker with wrinkles and streaks of gray hair, remained unmoved. He sounded Archfrostian. “No money, no trip.”

The woman clenched her teeth in frustration, her hands tightening into fists. I suddenly realized she wore gloves too. It could mean nothing… or everything.

One last look at her poor son struggling not to cry was enough to convince me to help. It just tugged at my heartstrings. Besides, they were fellow gingers. If we couldn’t count on each other in this terrible world of ours…

“Excuse me?” I said, causing the three of them to glance at me. I flipped the sailor a small purse full of silver coins, and he almost tripped off the ramp trying to catch it. “They’re with me.”

“W-who are you?” the sailor stammered, taken aback by my intervention.

“I’m Robin Waybright. I booked a private cabin for two.” Back when I thought Mersie would follow me to Archfrost. “And this is my wife you’re disrespecting.”

I lied smoothly, and the woman was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. She squinted at me with the same look I sent her earlier. My suspicions were growing stronger by the second.

“Don’t you remember, honey?” I falsely scolded the blacksmith. “Told you you had nothing to worry about. I took care of everything.”

After a brief moment of puzzlement, she quickly caught on to my scheme and played along. “Oh, right… sorry, I forgot.”

The sailor squinted at us, and then at the child. “And the boy? He’s not on the booked list.”

“He’s my son.” I put a hand on the child’s shoulder. He looked at me and back at his mom, but thankfully said nothing. His blue eyes, the same color as mine, helped me sell the lie. “We decided to take him with us at the last minute. I hope it won’t be a problem?”

The sailor checked the purse. “It will cost an extra silver.”

Ah yes, here came my old friend greed. Time to live up to that Merchant class.

“I booked in advance, and we’re going to introduce him to his grandparents in Snowdrift,” I lied through my teeth. “Surely you can do a gesture to a fellow Archfrostian? My mom and dad haven’t seen me since the war.”

My sob story, delivered with a sorrowful look and in my native tongue, tugged at the sailor’s heartstrings. He tried to look impassible, but his lips pursed a bit at the edge. Everyone in Archfrost had either lost someone or been impacted by the civil war. The fact the child shyly looked at the ground rather than at the man only helped us more.

“Alright, fine,” the sailor said while gesturing at the three of us. “Come along.”

“Thank you.” I nodded briefly at the man and turned to my new fellow travelers. “You’ve heard. Time to return home.”

The woman frowned sorrowfully when I said the last part, but nodded calmly. “Come, Benicio,” she gently told her son. “Everything will be fine.”

The boy meekly held his mother by the hand as we stepped onto the galley. A dozen people were already present on the deck; mercenaries traveling to the Stonegarde fortress after a trip to Snowdrift, merchants seeking to supply themselves upstream, religious pilgrims looking to pay homage to Archfrost’s hero-shrines, craftsmen traveling from one opportunity to the next, and more. The ship carried both merchandise and animals in its cargo hold; the sailors spent more time trying to get a trio of horses onboard than human passengers.

“Thanks, stranger,” the woman said as she and her son joined me along the railguard. The breeze blew in our faces. “You saved our hides.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied, low enough that no one would hear us over the wind. “So, which hero are you?”

Her warm smile confirmed my suspicions. “I knew you felt familiar somehow.”

“I guess our marks must react to each other when we’re close.” I extended a hand. “What’s your name? You already know mine.”

“Marika. Marika Lunastello.” She shook my hand and put another on her child’s head. “Benicio, say hello.”

The boy found enough courage to nod at me, before suddenly glancing at my boots. He was skittish, this one. Too much.

“I’m sorry, Benicio doesn’t speak much anymore.” Marika’s smile faded away. “We’ve… been through tough times.”

I could only see a few reasons why a woman would travel abroad with work tools and a child in tow. “You’re widowed?”

“Yes.” Marika’s scowl deepened, and little Benicio’s eyes fidgeted from left to right; like a horned rabbit suddenly afraid a dreadwolf might jump out of the shadows. “Something like that.”

They’re running away from someone. I gathered enough to ask no more. I had stepped on a raw wound. Makes sense why she would keep her class under wraps. Word would spread.

Benicio tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “What is it?” Marika asked, her son pointed at the dock. “Did something catch your interest?”

My gaze followed the child’s finger. Sailors were helping a black war stallion embark. Their owner, some kind of heavy knight over six-feet tall, was quite the sight. Their red armor was fashioned from iron and leather plates intricately joined together. Their surface glimmered in the sunlight like blazing embers. An azure-eyed, white tiger’s emblem was painted on their chest. I caught a glimpse of two hardened golden eyes and a tuft of black hair through their mighty, two-horned helmet’s visor; mouth and nose alike were buried under a plate of steel. A strange curved sword hung at their belt, and they carried a light lute on their back.

“Impressive,” Marika whispered.

“I’ve never seen that kind of armor,” I said, suddenly curious. The warrior’s boots made no sound when they strode on the deck in spite of their heavy equipment. They moved with an air of authority that belied their experience.

“It’s a Shinkokan design,” Marika replied. “They lacquer their armors to make them waterproof and use standardized plates to repair them more easily.”

I chuckled. “You have an expert’s eye.”

“That’s my job.” Marika whistled, her eyes shining when she examined the knight’s armor and weapon from afar. “That warrior must be quite wealthy. All of the plates are reinforced with firesilk essence for defense and flexibility. The sword has benefited from a diamond infusion to increase the sharpness, and the helmet with wind to smother the noise of battle. Same with the horse’s barding.”

I focused on the warrior’s equipment and noticed the faint, colorful wisps of essences emanating from their armor. To own even a single magical item betrayed a high level of wealth. To pack so many meant they were either an elite adventurer or a high-ranking noble. Since no Shinkokan warrior graced the Riverland Federation since the last war, my curiosity only grew.

Moreover, the more I looked at this warrior… the more familiar they felt. Marika started frowning too, though she focused more on the knight’s sword than the warrior themselves. The swordsman returned our gaze with a confused look.

Destiny knew nothing of subtlety.

Marika briskly let go of the railguard without warning and fearlessly stepped toward the mysterious stranger. “You,” she said with an alarmed, frightened voice. “How many people have you cut down with your blade?”

“Hundreds,” the warrior replied bluntly. To my surprise, the voice belonged to a woman.

“Well, that was a hundred too many.” Marika scowled at the sword. “Did it speak to you?”

The mystery knight remained sullenly silent for a few seconds, before answering with a firm, “Yes.”

“Your weapon bears a curse.” Marika extended a hand. “Lend it to me. I can exorcize it.”

Exorcize it? I focused on the sword. An overwhelming wave of dread and disquiet coursed over me when I identified its essence. A malicious, iridescent smoke emanated from the edge, invisible to most yet fearfully potent. The bitter taste of blood rushed over my tongue and the smell of death filled my nostrils. The leather sheath couldn’t contain whatever evil miasma suffused the sword.

“What’s going on here?” I whispered. To my surprise, Benicio instinctively moved behind me. “Can you feel it too?”

The child nodded slowly, his hands trembling with fear. I gently put a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. Whatever happened to the blade frightened him deeply.

The red swordswoman stood motionless like a mountain in the wind, holding her ground. “I have appreciation for the concern, but you have no need for worry,” she answered in broken Riverlandian. It wasn’t her native tongue for sure. “The burden is mine to bear.”

Marika’s anxious look turned into one of cold anger. “It won’t be when the sword takes you over.”

“I will not be losing.” The warrior’s armored hands tightened into fists. “I have great will.”

Her accent was melodic, with a stilted focus on syllabes. Definitely Shinkokan. However, from the way she deliberately pondered each word and still made basic grammar errors, the swordswoman clearly struggled with the Riverlandian dialect. She was no armed diplomat on a mission.

“You can resist it a hundred times, but you can falter only once.” Marika glared at the knight, heedless of the size difference. Her face strained with anger and a steely glare. “And then it will be an innocent who will pay the price for your foolishness.”

Though Marika did not raise her voice, she might as well have punched the knight in the face. The swordswoman flinched, their poised, unwavering composure utterly shattered. I half-expected her to fall off the railguard, but she managed to correct her stance.

Marika’s brow furrowed deeper. “Lend it to me.”

The knight hesitated for a moment, before reluctantly assenting to the request with a nod. Marika all but snatched the sword off her belt. A baleful aura glimmered around the sheath when it changed hands.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“I need space,” she told me without skipping a beat. The ship was pulling from the dock and moving onto the river. “Where’s your cabin, Robin?”

I asked a sailor, who guided us to a cramped room near the cargo hold. It was barely large enough for the four of us to fit in, with two straw beds sitting against the wooden bulkhead and a desk for accommodation. A porthole allowed light to drift in. Marika immediately tossed the only cupboard outside for more space. “Beni, can you put my purestone on the mattress and hold it?”

Her son removed the whetstone from his bag, laid it to rest on the bed, and held it with both hands. The knight and I watched on as Marika unsheathed the curved sword, a splendid weapon with a polished diamond edge, and grabbed a small hammer from among her tools. I noticed carvings on the head and the faint wisp of essence radiating off it.

“Hold still, Beni,” Marika told her son, biting her lip as she held the sword over the stone with one hand and raised her hammer with the other. “The curse is young, so it might scream a bit.”

“Do you require assistance?” I asked in concern, though I had no idea what was going on. The red knight, who seemed to understand, closed the cabin’s door behind us.

“No, don’t worry,” Marika replied with a proud grin. “I’m a weapon exorcist. I know my craft.”

She hit the sword’s edge with all her might, and the blade screeched in pain.

I jumped in surprise at the strident scream. A plume of darkness rose from the weapon where the hammer hit it. The whetstone, oval and translucent, absorbed it within itself. A patch of baleful blackness appeared on its surface like a leopard’s spot.

Marika quickly followed with a second strike, and then a third. Each time the blade bled black essence with a shriek and red veins manifested along its edge. Shy little Benicio didn’t even flinch, and the red knight watched the scene with grim eyes. The whetstone grew a new patch with each blow of the hammer, though the weapon’s screams weakened as well.

She’s purging it of essence, I guessed from observation. The blade was bleeding malice before my eyes and spilling it onto another container. Whatever evil spirit had taken hold of the sword was being sealed away one strike at a time. Since the stone’s weathered surface showed hints of repeated forging and yet showed no spot of darkness before Marika started working, I assumed it would purify the malice with time. “Fascinating work.”

“Thanks.” My praise filled Marika with pride. Although she continued beating the sword into shape, she relaxed enough for small talk. “When a weapon takes enough lives, they become stained by the malice of the dead. Their essence becomes tainted. Warped. Over time, it coalesces into a curse.”

“A promise of death,” the knight whispered.

Marika nodded gravely. “Cursed weapons develop a taste for blood. The weak ones subtly influence their owners. The truly dangerous ones, those which have claimed countless victims… wield their wielder. They warp people’s flesh and turn them into bloodthirsty monsters.”

“Must be pretty horrifying,” I said, the memory of Sforza’s gruesome transformation coming to mind. Little Benicio visibly chewed his own lip. I didn’t need more details to suspect what caused him to become mute; from the grim way Marika described the transformation, they had witnessed a pretty bad case. “So your job is to purify weapons of evil essence?”

“That’s the gist of it,” Marika answered as she set aside her hammer. The sword was silent and the whetstone was riddled with black stripes. “I’m a normal blacksmith too. I refine weapons, repair them, break them up… but weapon exorcism is my main expertise.”

She handed the sword back to the knight with a disapproving look. “Why didn’t you find an exorcist after hearing voices? You can clearly afford one.”

The swordswoman grabbed the sword by the handle and observed her reflection on the blade’s surface. “I wanted to have memories.”

“Of what, the smell of blood?” I asked.

The warrior sheathed her sword before answering. “My sins.”

She is half a bear, this one, I thought. A terse talker, but not the shy kind. I wondered how much of her behavior was due to her personality or from difficulties with speaking the Riverlandian tongue. “What’s your name, crimson lady?”

The warrior squinted at me with wariness. “Sora… Soraseo.”

“You shouldn’t stammer when coming up with an alias,” I advised her. “It immediately gives you away.”

“I see. I shall have memory of your advice.” ‘Soraseo’ nodded slowly without revealing her true name. “You are like me. The smith too. Heroes.”

“Straight to the point, eh?” Marika chuckled. “How about we take our gloves off at once?”

After checking that no one was listening through the door, we immediately compared our marks. Below her glove, Marika’s calloused left hand bore a silver hammer symbol with the Erebian numeral for nineteen. As for Soraseo, she simply removed her helmet to expose her true face. She had quite the lovely face, heart-shaped with delicate Shinkokan features, combed raven hair spilling onto her shoulders, and a silvery, fist-shaped mark numbered eight on her forehead.

The Artisan and the Monk.

Curious, curious, I thought while observing Soraseo. She looked around my age, with a fierce aura contrasting with her youthful appearance. She’s fine with revealing her hero’s mark, but not her true name. She must be quite the noble to travel incognito. I’ve never heard of a crimson knight from the Shinkoku though.

“You’re the Merchant, Robin?” Marika laughed upon checking my mark. As the Artisan, her class was a vassal of mine. “What are the odds?”

“Slim, which means it’s not a coincidence,” I pointed out. Three classes just happening to board the same ship on the same day made me wonder. “Heroes do gather together.”

Soraseo nodded sharply. “I have vassalage to the Knight, who rules in Archfrost. My destination.”

“Prince Roland doesn’t rule yet,” I corrected her. Which was half the problem with Archfrost’s leadership, alongside a certain secessionist duchy. “Do you seek to pledge your sword to his cause?”

“No.” The swordswoman shook her head. “I am to seek the Deadgate.”

I smirked at her joke, until I realized she was entirely serious. “Then you are mad.”

“The Deadwhat?” Marika asked. She sent a glance at her son, who was peering through the porthole. Tradewind’s shining rivershore shrank beyond the window. It would take a few days for the ship to carry us all the way to Snowdrift.

“The Deadgate,” I said. It was a famous legend in Archfrost. “They say it’s a crack in the Soulforge, where the dead reside before reincarnation. A place where you can meet ghosts.”

I immediately gained Soraseo’s full interest. She studied me like a hungry hound smelling a rabbit. “Do you have understanding of this place? I must go there.”

“You can’t,” I replied bluntly. “Not alone at least.”

“I must go.” The swordsman leaned over me with a harsh, imperious expression. Only then did I realize she was taller than me, even without the helmet. “Tell me.”

“First of all, say please.” I rubbed my fingers together, having smelled an opportunity. “And it’ll cost you.”

Marika exploded in warm laughter. “You’ll charge her for the information?”

“Of course,” I replied with a wink. “You should ask her to pay for the exorcism too.”

“She might have ended up killing someone had the curse festered longer,” Marika said. “It had to be done.”

“I agree,” I said with a smirk. “But you should charge a fee nonetheless. All good work deserves payment.”

While Marika grinned slyly, Soraseo frowned. “Merchant you are, that is true,” said the swordswoman. “How much will you have… please?”

“I’m thinking more of a trade.” I pointed at my mark. “I’ve been looking for someone trustworthy to test my class’s limits with. A fellow hero would do nicely.”

“Same,” Marika said. “We can help each other.”

“We have each other's understanding then.” Soraseo crossed her arms. “But a good merchant shows goods first.”

Who did she take me for? “From what I heard, the Deadgate is located somewhere in the Whitethroat region north of Archfrost,” I explained. “Where the wind is so cold, it chills the soul.”

And so I embarked on telling a new and interesting spin on the famous Archfrostian Spring battle, where the Glorious Generation—one of the greatest groups of heroes the world had ever seen—defeated the undead dragon Xernobog and his army of beastmen. So gripping was my tale that I managed to draw little Benicio from his lethargy. The boy sat on his mother’s lap to better listen, almost as rapturously as Soraseo herself.

“When Xernobog fell, his rotten dragon blood stained the snow red and Priest Chernoglav prayed to the four artifacts to seize his wicked spirit,” I said. “The Seacup itself opened a hole in the Soulforge to fulfill his request. So ended the Long Winter and the War of the Three Cold Years.”

“I have seeing.” Soraseo sat on a mattress. “The Deadgate is where the dragon met death.”

“Or so they say,” I replied. “Now you understand why it’s madness to go there. The battle took place in the Whitethroat region, far to the north of Archfrost. Not only must you get past Stonegarde, but surviving the journey beyond it is an ordeal. It’s a desolate land where the wind is cold enough to turn steel brittle and the beastmen tribes rule.”

Soraseo approached the nigh-impossible with a blank face and a look of determination. “I have the understanding now.”

“Why are you looking for this place?” Marika asked with a curious look.

“There is something I must give apologies to.” Soraseo looked away at the porthole, her composure cracking to reveal sorrow festering underneath. “Someone dead.”

I glanced at her sword and put two and two together. “Someone you killed.”

Soraseo nodded slowly, her tongue tied. Marika might have exorcized her weapon, but she was still being haunted by someone else.

Well, she would have the opportunity to apologize to that person. Either she succeeded in reaching Deadgate, or she would likely perish on the journey there. I could tell trying to dissuade her directly would be met with indifference—her mind was set—but I still tried to gently nudge her away from this madness.

“To reach the Deadgate, you must get past the Stonegarde fortress that keeps Archfrost safe from beastmen raids,” I said. “They don’t let anyone through, not to mention the journey will be a trying one. You should stay in Snowdrift for a while to prepare. See if you can find a map or a guide.”

“Your words have wisdom, merchant,” she answered. Though I had the feeling she would ignore them nonetheless. “I have purchased your knowledge. I will pay now.”

“Excellent.” I loved an honest customer. I sat next to her on the mattress and peeked inside my purse. “I’m told that I can buy and sell anything, but I can’t believe my ability has no hard limits whatsoever. I’ve thought of a few exercises to test them.”

“Can you buy a star?” Marika joked while petting her son’s hair. “Benicio loves them.”

“I actually tried to purchase one,” I confessed, much to her amusement. “I asked the night to sell me the wyvern constellation.”

“So?” Marika raised a curious eyebrow. “Did the night agree?”

“She didn’t answer me,” I said, disappointing her son. “Maybe I should ask the goddess herself.”

I had so many questions for her. Could I sell her the moon or buy the sun? Did everything have a set price? How much was a memory worth? Could I force a trade under duress? Tales abounded of a cunning Merchant swindling kings of their kingdoms and fulfilling poor orphans’ wishes, but I believed none of them. A power as vast as mine required boundaries. The potential for abuse was simply unfathomable otherwise.

Soraseo’s next words drew me out of my thoughts. “I have understanding that classes come in pairs. The Knight has mastery of weapons; the Mage has mastery of spells. The Bard has knowledge of men’s souls and the Ranger of the language of animals.”

“The Rogue can steal anything,” Marika reminisced. “But they never give it back.”

“Ah, I see your point.” I drew three gold coins from my purse. “The Rogue can accumulate power quickly since they don’t ask for permission, but I can share mine?”

“Seems like a good idea to start with,” Marika said. Her eyes observed the gold coin with a tiny bit of envy; as for Benicio, it mesmerized him. I wondered if he had ever seen one before.

I handed a coin to Soraseo and dangled another to the lovely Artisan in the room. “Do you want to see your mother work magic, Benicio?” I asked her son. “The heroic kind?”

Sullen he might be, Little Benicio remained a child. He looked at his mother, who grabbed the coin with a smirk on her face. “You’re a rascal, Robin,” she said. “Using my own son against me.”

“It’s what I do,” I replied before flipping my own coin and turning to face Soraseo. “Oh crimson knight, have you ever heard of Shield-Sword-Scroll?”

“I have no Knight class.” Soraseo frowned in confusion. “I have a sword, and I have paper in my bag. I do not carry a shield. I need both hands to cut a man in half.”

Marika chuckled at her ignorance, while I smiled. Perfect. She didn’t understand anything.

“We use the three for a game,” I said while pointing a finger at Soraseo’s coin. “I will sell you the knowledge required to play it for a gold piece.”

“The knowledge?” Soraseo was somewhat confused, but handed me her coin anyway. “Very well. I purchase your understanding.”

My vision went white the moment my fingers grabbed the coin, though only for a brief flash. Soraseo blinked as if she had learned a surprising secret.

“Did it work?” Marika asked, her son quiet as a ghost on her lap.

“I have a small understanding,” Saraseo replied with a frown. “I see how a good shield can stop a sword, but why would a scroll defeat a shield? Paper cannot break a shield without essence.”

I had no clue what she was talking about.

I tried to remember the basics of Shield-Sword-Scroll and came up short. I knew it was a game of some sort and that I had played it many times with Mersie, but I couldn’t remember the rules at all.

Marika chuckled at my obvious confusion. “You forgot?”

“Somewhat.” I focused on memories of older games, only for a fog to obscure them. I remembered who I had beaten or been defeated by at the game, including a drunken competition with Sforza’s men. “It’s strange. I remember the games’ outcomes and surrounding circumstances, but not the matches themselves.”

“You sold me the understanding of how to play,” Soraseo pointed out wisely. “Not the awareness of the game.”

I nodded in confirmation. She was onto something. “Can someone teach me the rules? I need to see if I can remember them.”

Little Benicio raised his hands, mimicking a shield with an open palm, a rolled scroll with a fist, and a sword with a raised thumb; though a ‘dagger’ would have been more appropriate for that one.

“Sword beats scroll,” Marika explained. “Scroll beats shield, which beats sword.”

Soraseo was right, the rules made little sense to me. However, the fog over my memory cleared when I practiced the game with Soraseo a few times. I forgot whatever information I sold, but it wasn’t barred to me from then on. I could learn it from scratch.

“Now, something more extreme.” I offered Soraseo a coin. “I will buy your knowledge of Shield-Sword-Scroll. One very important detail, I want your knowledge of the game itself.”

“I have agreement.” The swordswoman’s golden eyes widened slightly when she grabbed my coin. She glanced at her newfound money with a confused look, then turned her head around as if looking for something she couldn’t see.

Marika’s jaw tightened in concern. “Are you well?”

“I have no memory of what we were having a discussion about.” Soraseo massaged her temple as if struggling against a headache. “I believe we exchanged something… something I don’t… something I don’t have memory of anymore. This is having a bothering effect on me.”

“You sold me knowledge of a game,” I explained. “You played a match against me less than a minute ago. Do you remember it?”

“I have the intuition that we played a game, but not which one.” Soraseo turned to Marika in confusion. “Did we?”

“Yes.” Marika scowled at me. “This power of yours is quite sinister, Robin. I can see how the previous Merchants swindled so many people.”

No kidding. I hadn’t only taken Soraseo’s memory of the game, but of the trade itself along the way. If I were like Sforza, I could easily gaslight a poor schmuck into repeated exchanges. Though speaking of swindling…

“Next test.” I turned to face Marika this time. “I’ll buy the sun from you for the coin you own.”

“I don’t ow—ah, I get it!” Marika scoffed upon guessing my intent. She played the part and handed me my pocket change back. “Very well. An honest trade.”

The coin vanished the very moment it passed into my hand.

I blinked in surprise as it reappeared inside Marika’s palm. I had expected something more subtle, but there could be no mistaking it. My magic had voided the deal and made it very clear.

“I see how it is,” I muttered. I decided to check anyway. “Here’s my new offer, Marika: I will sell you the Monk’s hair color against a gold coin.”

“I do not agree to this trading,” Soraseo protested.

“Yes, that’s the whole point,” Marika said as she purchased her fellow hero’s hair color. Once again the coin teleported out of my hand, and Soraseo’s own hair did not turn white. “He cannot sell what he does not own, nor purchase what the seller cannot provide.”

I hid my relief. My power would be utterly terrifying if I didn’t have to deliver on my end of the bargain; even I would be tempted to abuse it. Thank the goddess she put safeguards against bad practices.

“Next test,” I said. At this point, we each possessed a coin. I nodded sharply and looked at Soraseo. “Please give permission to Marika to sell the coin you hold in your hand, but don’t specify any price.”

“I have no understanding of your intent, but you have my agreement.” Soraseo turned Marika and met his gaze. “I give you the allowing.”

“Now, I will buy Soraseo’s coin and yours for one of mine,” I told Marika. “Do you agree?”

“That’s blatantly unfair, but alright,” Marika agreed.

The moment the Artisan seized her prize, her coin and that of the Monk found their way into the Merchant’s palm. Little Benicio’s jaw dropped in amazement, his surprise a soothing balm for my soul. All was right in the world… or so it seemed.

“Oh, I have the understanding now.” Soraseo nodded upon figuring out my experiment. “You can delegate the power.”

“Yes, but something’s not right.” I squinted at Marika’s newfound coin. “I traded this coin for two. It should have split in two, since you both own half of its value.”

“Soraseo didn’t specify a price,” Marika pointed out. “Maybe the result will change if she suggests one?”

“Perhaps,” I conceded. “Let’s do it again Soraseo, but this time you must explicitly ask for half a coin as your price.”

We repeated the experiment with this slight variation. My power immediately canceled the trade, returning the intact coins to their original owners. We exchanged looks of incomprehension and I let out a sigh.

“New attempt,” I said. “This time Soraseo, you must allow Marika to trade your coin for one. I will buy Marika’s coin and yours for two of mine.”

We proceeded with the test, and this time my magic activated properly: Soraseo’s coin switched places with one of mine, as did Marika’s. “Why did it activate this time?” the latter asked in amazement.

“I can’t sell a fraction of a thing,” I guessed, while flipping my coin in the air. “The part sold must be compartmentalized and specified. I can sell knowledge of a game’s rules, but not half the knowledge of the game.”

Little Benicio caught my coin in midair and I let him keep it, much to his mother’s amusement. “And the first exchange?” Marika asked. “I sold Soraseo’s coin and one of mine, but kept the change.”

“I suspect my power interprets a mandate to sell something at any price as giving it away,” I said. “But I’ll require more testing to check.”

Soraseo scowled, her eyes squinting in suspicion. “What if the intermediary betrays the will of the customer? What of lying?”

I shrugged. “Let’s check.”

We did. Fortunately, it turned out that my power was rigidly fair. Soraseo allowed Marika to sell one of her coins for two more; when the Artisan asked for a single piece, my magic canceled the trade. Same when I offered to sell three of mine instead of two, although Soraseo would have benefited from the transaction.

“Seems your power follows a trade to the letter,” Marika noted.

“Let’s see if intent influences the deal,” I said after distributing new coins from the purse. “This time I want both of you to vocally agree to a fair deal without intending to deliver in your heart. I’ll also lie about my intentions. None of us will make a move to actually give away our respective coins. We’ll just vocally agree to the trade.”

We all proceeded to make the deal in bad faith; and my power still validated the transaction, switching our coins around. Intentions didn’t matter, only the letter of the deal. No party could break their word.

We tried it again right after, except this time I made a mental effort not to activate my power. It thankfully did not activate and I breathed in relief. I could switch my ability off. However, I needed to be really careful about my sentences from now on. Because if I agreed to a deal while my ability was active, my power would force me to deliver and it would interpret the bargain rigidly. My word was law.

Was silence too?

“Next exercise,” I said. “This time Soraseo, you will offer me to trade your coin for one of mine. I won’t answer, I’ll just nod in agreement but make no move to deliver the coin. If the coins don’t teleport, I want you to take my coin and give me yours.”

“I shall try,” the swordswoman replied with a nod. “I will have one of your coins for one of mine, Lord Merchant.”

I nodded sharply and made a mental effort to activate my power. The coins in question didn’t teleport. Soraseo proceeded to take my coin out of my lap and replace it with one of her own. Our respective money was immediately teleported back to their original owner. The deal had been voided.

Silence did not equal acceptance. Good.

“Okay, now you will ask again.” I looked into my travel bag and brought out a scroll I used for notekeeping. “But this time I will write that I consent to the trade in its exact terms. We’ll repeat the experiment afterwards, except I’ll just write ‘I consent to these terms’ without adding more.”

Results were interesting. When I wrote down that I conceded to the trade in the terms proposed by Soraseo, my magic activated and exchanged the coins. When my answer was vague, my power refused to validate the trade. This meant my ability could work through written contracts.

Little Benicio had lost interest in the tiresome process and yawned. I took it as a signal to stop and review my findings.

“Here are the rules of the Merchant Class I’ve gathered so far,” I said while scribbling notes. “I can buy or sell nearly anything so long as it’s neatly detailed, from information, to traits, to physical goods. My power requires an exchange, so no freebies. I can’t sell something I do not own nor purchase what my client doesn’t possess; and when knowledge or a skill is bought, the previous owner loses it. I cannot sell the same information multiple times, but nothing prevents me from learning it again. What is sold must be whole or quantified. I cannot buy half a body, but I can buy one arm or a leg. The price must be agreed upon by both parties orally or on paper; intentions don’t matter, not even mine. And though intermediaries are allowed, consent must be explicit and given clear boundaries.”

“You figured this out in half an hour?” Marika whistled. “That is truly impressive.”

Soraseo offered me a nod of respect too. I could tell I had risen in her esteem. “You have a great and frightful power, Lord Merchant.”

There were a few more limits I would need to test: would my power validate a trade to which I wasn’t a direct party to, such as Soraseo selling her knowledge to Marika? How far did the teleportation effect’s range extend? What other forms of communication could trigger my power? Would it activate if the seller didn’t have the goods, but would obtain them at a later date after the agreement’s conclusion? How many intermediaries could my power support? Could I ask a king to sell me a year from each of his subjects’ lifespan?

And most importantly… Could I buy or sell a class? I doubted the goddess wouldn’t close this loophole considering the potential for abuse, but who knew? I doubted any of us would agree to such a trade, so I didn’t broach the subject.

“In any case, thank you for your cooperation.” I grinned at my fellow heroes. “Now that you’ve seen mine, how about you show me your powers?”

I half-expected Soraseo not to say anything, since she kept her true name a secret. However, it seemed our little training session earned me some trust. “I have understanding of the body,” she said, pointing at Marika’s whetstone and tools. “Can you show your craft, blacksmith?”

Marika cocked her head to one side in confusion. “How so? I require a fire to forge a weapon, and I don’t think the captain would enjoy me setting up one on his ship.”

“Only have the movements,” Soraseo insisted. “For performance.”

Marika hesitated, but a giddy look from her curious son convinced her to play along. She grabbed a tool and mimicked forging a sword over the whetstone.

Soraseo’s mark glowed with a silvery gleam and the Monk swiftly imitated Marika’s movements with uncanny precision. Even the most talented imitators required a short time to register their target’s shift in posture. Not Soraseo. She copied every tiny gesture from Marika, down to the subtle facial expressions and the twitch of the fingers. Her hand wielded a phantom hammer with the practiced skill of an expert. It was almost disturbing.

“If I see another move one way, I can do it again,” Soraseo explained when Marika finished. “My muscles have the memory. My sword is my weapon, but my hands and feet are strong too.”

I heard people in the east practiced hand-to-hand martial arts in tandem with essence infusions. It took students years to master these skills, while Soraseo could surpass them with a look. Her power wasn’t as devastating as the Knight’s or the Mage’s, but it would make her a fearsome combatant nonetheless.

“Does this apply to any physical skill?” I asked, which Soraseo confirmed with a terse nod. “Then you can learn how to play instruments, how to craft and cook…”

“It took me years of practice to learn weapon forging, but you could rival me in hours.” Marika chuckled in embarrassment. “I’m kind of jealous.”

“The praise is not mine,” Soraseo replied humbly. “The mark has the power. Not me.”

I immediately wondered about the synergies between our respective classes. Soraseo could quickly learn skills and then sell them to an intermediary through my humble contribution. In return, I could provide physical or immaterial boons her power couldn’t replicate. The goddess expected the heroes to fight together and it showed.

“What about you, Marika?” I asked my new friend. “What can the Artisan craft?”

Marika blushed a bit in embarrassment. Since her son’s eyes lit up with interest, I guessed her ability was the flashy kind.

“Can I borrow two of your coins?” she asked me with some hesitation. When I agreed, Marika rubbed them together. “Look.”

Her mark lit up and her magic activated in the blink of an eye. I watched on in amazement as the two coins merged together; their gold seamlessly melted into a single piece twice as big as the original two.

“From what I gathered, I can fuse two items together, essences included.” Marika handed me the oversized coin back with a sheepish smile. “I’ve merged two swords, a leather vest and steel plates, a hammer and a sickle…”

“Could you merge a boat with a carriage?” I whispered while examining the coin. Though it weighed as much as its components, it was exquisitely crafted. I couldn’t find any scratch or signs of the fusion. As far as my eyes were concerned, this piece had been made from scratch. “Or a cannon with a sword?”

Marika chuckled. “Why is that the first that comes to your mind?”

“A sword with a cannon would be unwieldy,” Soraseo said with a straight face. “Too heavy a weight. A dagger and an arquebuse would have the better weightlessness.”

“But it’s hero magic!” I pointed out, excited like a child in a candy store. The Artisan’s power had so many applications! “If I can sell memories, maybe Marika can build a working cannonblade! We can’t know until she tries!”

“Find me an Iremian rune-cannon laying around in a closet and then we can talk,” Marika teased me, though I could tell my idea appealed to her. What blacksmith hadn’t dreamed of combining the best weapons into a deadly king of the battlefield? “I confess, I’m still trying to figure out my ability as I go.”

“Say no more!” I searched in my bag. “I purchased a piece of dry beef at the inn yesterday. We’ll see if you can fuse meat and gold.”

Marika stared blankly at me. “Why would you want to do that?”

I returned her gaze. “For science.”

The righteousness of my cause, and the excited look her mute son sent her, convinced Marika to go along. Even Soraseo remained silent, unable to suppress her curiosity.

This was going to be a long trip… and the start of lifelong friendships.