A figure stepped out from the trees, as if he had been expecting them. Tall, lean, dressed in a well-kept but tattered coat. His face was sharp but forgettable, his hair a dusty brown that might have once been lighter. He carried himself with an unsettling ease, his smile effortless, practiced, too smooth to be entirely real.
"Evening, travelers," the man greeted, his voice rich and warm like well-aged wine, yet carrying a note of something else. Something slippery. "A long road behind, a longer road ahead. Perhaps you'd be interested in a little respite? A bit of trade? Company is such a rare commodity on these roads, after all. And rare things… well, they often hold the most value."
Renn exhaled sharply, already suspicious. "No, thanks."
The merchant tutted, wagging a finger. "Ah, how quickly the young refuse generosity! It is a habit of the modern age, I find. Everything is rush, rush, rush. No one pauses to enjoy the finer things in life! A good conversation, the crisp air of dusk, the taste of a deal well struck. Why, I once knew a man—ah, but I digress." He waved a hand in mock dismissal, though his grin never wavered. "Surely, you wouldn't pass up a trade. A fair exchange, an honest barter! One mustn't be too quick to dismiss opportunity when it presents itself. That's how fortunes are lost, you know. That's how stories end too soon."
Elira glanced at Silas, but he was already staring at the merchant with narrowed eyes.
The merchant's grin widened, sensing interest. "Ah, now here's a man who listens. A rare quality. I knew a fellow once, a scholar, obsessed with listening. Believed if he heard every whisper, every rumor, every secret uttered beneath breath, he'd unlock the mysteries of the world. Spent his life eavesdropping. Never spoke a word himself. Eventually, he stopped sleeping, started hearing things no one else could. Went mad, poor thing. But! There's a lesson in that, don't you think?"
Silas's gaze flicked to the cart. A glimpse of metal shone beneath cloth; weapons, relics, things that should not be here.
His jaw tightened. "Where did you get this?"
The merchant clapped his hands together, delighted. "Ah! A man with taste! You see, I am… well, let us say a finder of things. A listener. The past does not like to stay buried, no matter how men try to forget. It whispers. It calls. And I, well… I answer." He tapped the side of his temple as though he could hear the voices even now.
Elira crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. "So what you're saying is, you take things that don't belong to you, so steal, spin a few flowery words around it, and call it fate?"
The merchant gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest as though wounded. "Steal? My dear, such an ugly word! No, no, I liberate. These artifacts, these weapons, they wish to be found. They wish for new hands to wield them." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you wouldn't deny an old sword its purpose, would you? That would be cruel."
Renn scoffed. "You talk too much."
The merchant grinned. "Ah, now that is something I cannot deny! My tongue runs faster than my feet, and my feet have carried me far, my friend. I once met a mute, you know. Wouldn't say a word, not even when he was drowning. But he wrote; oh, how he wrote! Covered every wall of his home with words, scribbled over windows, floors, even his own skin. A man with a thousand voices trapped inside, yet silent as the grave. Makes you think, doesn't it?"
Silas ignored his story, but he didn't take his eyes off him. "So you scavenge?"
The merchant sighed, shaking his head. "Such a poor man's word. No, my trade is… different. More refined. Some might call it unnatural, but then, what is nature if not the rearrangement of what already exists? Ah, but here I go again! You must forgive me; I have been traveling alone too long. Words spill like wine from an overturned goblet, and once they start, who am I to stop them?"
Renn tensed, arms folding across his chest as his jaw tightened. "Unnatural in what way?"
The merchant steepled his fingers, taking his time. "Ah, curiosity! A most dangerous trait, my friend. It opens doors, it lets in things one cannot always send back out. But, since you ask… a deal, my friend. A contract, if you will. With an ancient power, one who sees the threads of history and lets me pull at them, ever so gently. Just enough to bring back what was lost."
Elira narrowed her eyes, skepticism hardening her voice. "What kind of power are we talking about here?"
The merchant exhaled through his nose, amused. "A devil, if it pleases you. Or something older. Names, you see, are slippery things. I have long since given up trying to pin one down. You'd be amazed how many things in this world despise being named. A name is a tether, a chain. To speak something truly is to know it. But to truly know it… well, that is a dangerous thing." He chuckled, as if enjoying his own riddles. "Ah, and I once knew a man who sought the true names of all things! He went mad before he got very far. Poor soul."
Elira stepped forward, cautious now. "And what exactly did you trade?"
The merchant clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if weighing his words. "A question with many answers. What is a trade, after all? A fair exchange? A loss and a gain? A mere shift of ownership?"
Renn rolled his eyes. "Just answer the damn question."
The merchant laughed, a soft, knowing chuckle. "Oh, but answers are never simple. There was a man I met once, obsessed with the nature of transactions. He would never buy anything, you see, not unless he knew its full history. Who made it, who touched it, who bled for it. Spent hours bartering over the smallest things, afraid he might inherit some curse or sorrow clinging to the object's past. Drove himself mad with it, the poor fool. But I digress. You ask what I traded?"
He leaned forward, his gaze steady now, less playful. "Myself. My name, my face, my very presence. Once we part ways, you will forget me. My voice, my words, my existence. It will slip through your fingers like sand. And you—you will look at this cart and wonder how long it has been here, how long you have been standing before it."
Elira frowned, crossing her arms. "That's… ridiculous."
"Is it?" The merchant arched a brow. "Tell me, how long have you been speaking to me? A few minutes? An hour? Can you say for certain?"
Silas's fingers twitched. He looked at the cart, the trees, the fading sky. The air felt thick, heavy, like a dream that had gone on too long.
Elira opened her mouth, hesitated, then glanced at Renn. "We just got here. Didn't we?"
Renn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Enough riddles. You're saying we'll forget you? That's impossible. We're talking to you right now."
The merchant let out a slow sigh, almost wistful. "Ah, belief. Such a fragile thing. So easy to hold, so quick to slip through your fingers. But no matter." He waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. "You'll see soon enough."
Elira scoffed, glancing at Renn. "This is ridiculous. He's just messing with us."
"Am I?" The merchant tilted his head. "Tell me, dear travelers, have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why? Or reached for a thought only to find it missing? A small thing, a common thing, yet unsettling all the same. Now imagine that… but with a person. A conversation. A name."
Silas studied the merchant carefully, eyes flicking over every detail, the cut of his coat, the way his hands moved, the way his words spun like a web, intricate yet deliberate. There was something practiced in his manner, something that begged to be questioned.
"So you claim you listen to the past," Silas said, tilting his head. "Then tell me, how does it speak to you?"
The merchant's fingers traced the curve of a blade, lingering there as if feeling its pulse. "Oh, in many ways," he mused. "Some voices whisper in dreams. Some rattle in the bones of the earth. And some…" His eyes flickered toward Silas, the smirk still lingering. "Some are etched into steel, waiting for the right hands to listen."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "Convenient. But anyone can spin a story. Anyone can dig up relics and claim they hold secrets. Give me something real. A detail you shouldn't know."
The merchant chuckled. "Ah! A skeptic. I do love a challenge." He tapped the weapon gently. "This sword, for instance. It once belonged to a man who feared death above all things. He carved runes into its hilt, hoping they would protect him. A clever trick, but fate is rarely so kind. He was struck down in the end, not by battle, not by treachery, but by something small. Something… insignificant."
He let the words hang in the air, watching for the flicker of curiosity in your eyes before continuing. "A fever, they say. A single, cursed wound left untended. In the end, all his desperate precautions meant nothing." He ran a finger along the worn etchings in the hilt. "But here's where the tale darkens. Some claim that the runes did work, just not as he intended. Rather than keeping death at bay, they bound his soul within the blade itself."
The merchant leaned in, lowering his voice. "And so, it is said that each wielder of this sword is watched over… guided, even. The spirit within whispers, nudging fate in their favor, just enough to keep them from harm. At first." He smiled, a knowing, almost wicked thing. "But every favor has its price. When the time is right, when the sword chooses, fate shifts. And in their final moments, the one who holds it finds no salvation." He tapped the hilt again, lightly. "Only then is the spirit freed. Released to claim its rightful place in the world once more."
Straightening, he spread his hands. "Of course, that's just an old story." His grin widened. "But who knows? Perhaps you're the owner it's been waiting for."
Silas didn't waver. "And you know this… how? You dug up his grave?"
The merchant tapped his temple. "Ah, if only it were that simple."
Silas inhaled slowly, then exhaled. His curiosity was getting the better of him, but he wasn't about to let the merchant lead him in circles. "And the sword itself? What does it whisper to you?"
The merchant's smile widened, his eyes glittering with the delight of a man who had been waiting for just such a question. "Oh, my friend, it sings! Not in words, no, words are clumsy things, clattering and crude, but in echoes, in murmurs carried through time itself. It remembers the grip of every trembling hand, the warmth of blood it has tasted, the cold hush of the moments before a fatal strike. It does not speak as you and I do, no, but it knows. And knowledge, well…" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hush, "Knowledge is the sharpest blade of them all."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "And yet you speak as if the blade tells you all this directly."
The merchant chuckled, shaking his head. "Directly? Ah, but you misunderstand the nature of old things, of forgotten relics! They do not whisper in ways the untrained ear can hear. No, no, it is a language of weight, of silence, of the way a weapon sits in your hand and tells you of the ghosts it carries. I knew a man once, a scholar of such things, he dedicated his life to listening to the whispers of the past. Obsessed, truly. He believed that if he could only hear clearly enough, he could rewrite history itself. Imagine! To take the past and weave it anew, stitch by stitch, as one might mend a fraying coat. But, ah, he did not anticipate the nature of history, it does not wish to be rewritten, my friend, and in the end, well… it wrote over him instead."
Silas scoffed. "Or perhaps you just enjoy spinning riddles."
The merchant tapped his temple, his grin unfaltering. "What is a riddle but a truth wrapped in mystery? And what is truth but the most stubborn of lies, one we tell ourselves over and over until we can no longer see its seams?" He sighed, spreading his arms as if in lament. "But I see you are impatient. A pity! Impatience, I have found, is the grave of wisdom. Oh, how many souls have rushed ahead, thinking they could outrun their fate! I knew a gambler once, a man who lived and breathed on the thrill of the wager. He believed luck was a living thing, something he could tame, trick, outmaneuver. And for a time, he did. Fortune smiled on him, showered him in wealth, in power. But luck, my friend, is a fickle creature. It tires of those who grow too comfortable. And so, one day, his luck abandoned him, not all at once, no, but in little ways, in things so small he did not notice until it was too late. A missed step here, a poor choice there. And then… ah! The final wager, the one he did not realize he had made."
Silas exhaled sharply. "Enough. If you're going to keep talking in circles, then-"
The merchant raised a hand, laughing softly. "Ah, ah. You grow weary, don't you? How heavy curiosity becomes when it yields no satisfaction. Like thirsting for water, only to find the river dry."
Silas opened his mouth, but stopped. The weight of it all, the words, the questions, the nagging feeling that something was slipping through his grasp settled on his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, tired, exasperated.
"Forget it."
The merchant chuckled, tilting his head. "Ah, weariness, that old companion. It comes for us all, sooner or later. But no matter! A weary traveler should not leave empty-handed." He turned, rummaging through the cart with a theatrical hum before retrieving a sword. Its hilt was wrapped in worn leather, its blade bearing the ghost of etchings long faded by time.
Silas frowned, eyeing the merchant with suspicion. "And what exactly do you want in return?"
The merchant's grin didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, as though he had been waiting for this very question. With an airy wave of his hand, he said, "Oh, think nothing of it! Consider it a gift. A simple exchange, if you must put it in such terms. A blade for your company, for the patience of indulging an old man's ramblings. Conversation, you see, is a rare currency in this world. Rarer than gold, rarer than relics. And infinitely more valuable."
Silas didn't look convinced. He shifted his weight, his fingers flexing at his sides. "No one gives something for nothing."
The merchant chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. "Oh, how true! But tell me, what is a thing truly worth? Is it in the coin exchanged? The weight of the metal? Or is it in the story that lingers long after the thing itself is gone? You see, my friend, I have no need for trinkets. No need for wealth, for food, for shelter. But a story? Ah, now that is a thing worth trading for." He tapped the hilt of the sword gently, as though in reverence. "And what is a sword, if not a story given shape? Every weapon has a history, a purpose, a fate. All I ask is that you carry this one forward. Let it live in your hands rather than rot in some forgotten corner of the world."
Elira studied the blade, then the merchant, her eyes narrowing. "If that's the case," she said, voice calm but probing, "why not join us?"
The air seemed to shift. A pause, subtle yet heavy, settled over them like the first breath before a storm.
Renn and Silas reacted at once, almost in unison. Sharp, alarmed glances shot toward her, as if she had suggested something unthinkable. Silas stiffened, his grip tightening, while Renn let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, shaking his head.
But the merchant?
The merchant only smiled.
A slow, wistful curve of his lips, tinged with something unreadable. Amusement? Sadness? It was impossible to tell. He tilted his head, fingers drumming absently against the hilt of the sword.
"Ah, my dear," he said, almost gently. "If only it were so simple."
Elira held his gaze. "And why isn't it?"
The merchant's eyes gleamed, though the playfulness in them had dulled just a fraction. "Because," he said, "I am bound by my contract."
The words carried weight, the kind that settled deep, that hummed with something unseen yet undeniable.
"A simple condition, really," he continued, his tone lighter now, as if brushing past something unpleasant. "Should I travel alongside others, truly accompany them, not merely cross paths. My soul is forfeit. Claimed." He made a small, careless gesture, as though such a fate were of little consequence. "I would no longer belong to myself."
Silas exhaled slowly. Renn said nothing, but his arms folded tighter across his chest, his expression darkening.
Elira hesitated, then asked, "Claimed by what?"
The merchant only smiled again, but this time, it did not reach his eyes.
"Oh, my dear," he murmured, "there are some questions best left unanswered."
For the first time since their meeting, silence stretched between them. The wind stirred, rustling the trees, a whisper of movement through the leaves.
As the moment settled into something unnerving, the merchant's grin returned, as smooth and effortless as ever. He clapped his hands together once, breaking the tension like a blade through silk.
"But enough of that!" he declared, voice warm again, lilting, effortless. "What is life without a little mystery, after all?" His gaze flicked back to Silas, sharp and gleaming. "So? Will you take the blade? Or shall I find another traveler in need of a story?"
Silas looked at the sword, then at the merchant. He exhaled through his nose, the unease still curling at the edge of his mind.
But his hand reached for the hilt.
Silas hesitated for only a moment before giving the merchant a short nod. "Thanks," he said simply.
The merchant grinned, clearly pleased. "Ah, but a sword must have a proper home, mustn't it?" Without waiting for a response, he turned and rummaged through his cart, muttering under his breath as he sifted through various trinkets. After a few moments, he pulled out a worn but sturdy leather belt, complete with a fitted sheath.
"Here," he said, handing it over. "A good blade deserves to be carried well."
Silas took it, running a hand over the thick leather. It was well-crafted, the embossing along its length faded but intricate. Without protest, he fastened it around his waist, securing the sword in place. It sat comfortably at his side, as if it had always been there.
The merchant gave a satisfied nod. "Much better. A warrior should look the part, after all."
Elira watched him carefully. "And that's all? You don't want anything in return?"
The merchant waved a hand dismissively. "Consider it part of the trade. Steel for conversation. That is enough for me."
Silas didn't question it further. Instead, he gave a final nod and turned away. "Safe travels."
The merchant only smiled. "And to you as well."
Silas adjusted the sword at his hip, testing its weight as he stepped back onto the road.
Elira cast one last glance at the merchant before following. Renn, however, lingered a moment longer, arms crossed. "You're a strange man," he muttered.
The merchant chuckled, tipping his head. "And you, my friend, are refreshingly blunt. A rare trait."
Renn exhaled sharply, shaking his head before finally turning to catch up with the others.
The silence stretched between them as they walked, their footsteps the only sound on the lonely road. The air was cool, the wind tugging at their clothes. For a long while, no one spoke.
Then, Elira sighed. "Feels like it's been ages since we've seen another living soul."
Silas frowned, but didn't disagree. "Yeah."
Renn snorted. "No surprise. No one in their right mind travels these roads."
Elira hummed in thought. "Still, you'd think we would've run into someone by now. A traveler, a merchant, even some bandits."
Silas didn't answer. He turned the sword over in his hands with growing disinterest. The weight of it felt wrong, unfamiliar, unnecessary. He unfastened the belt and scabbard in one motion, shaking his head.
"I don't like carrying this," he muttered.
Renn barely spared him a glance. "Then don't."
Silas nodded as if that settled it, gripping the sword by the sheath. He turned toward the trees, clearly about to toss it into the brush.
"Wait," Elira's voice cut in, sharp and quick. She stepped forward, catching his arm with her left hand before he could let go.
Silas frowned. "What?"
"What are you doing?" she asked, incredulous.
He blinked at her. "Getting rid of it."
"You don't just throw away a perfectly good sword."
Silas scoffed, looking down at the weapon as if it had personally offended him. "I don't even know why I took it. It's not like we found it in some treasure hoard." He let out a breath. "We found this thing in the ground."
Elira hesitated. For a second, a strange silence stretched between them. She glanced at Renn, who only shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck.
"…Yeah," she said slowly. "Lucky, huh?"
Silas, oblivious to their uncertainty, just held it out to her. "You want it?"
Elira eyed the sword, then her right hand, still wrapped in its cast. She sighed. "Yeah, because I'm real suited for that right now."
Silas hesitated, then shrugged. "Renn?"
Renn wrinkled his nose. "Do I look like I need a sword?"
Silas exhaled sharply, already turning back toward the trees.
"Okay, okay," Elira stopped him again, this time nudging the hilt with her good hand. "Fine, I'll keep it. Just don't chuck it into the woods like an idiot."
She took the sword awkwardly, shifting it to her hip. With one hand, she couldn't exactly test its weight properly, but… something about it felt right.
Silas sighed and unfastened his belt completely, tossing it to her.
"Here," he said. "It'll fit better with this."
Elira caught it, adjusting the sheath and strapping the belt over her coat. It sat a little clunky with her cast in the way, but she could work with it.
"Not bad," she muttered.
Silas just shook his head and kept walking.
Behind them, the wind whispered through the trees.