"That'll be four bronze, miss," Marlow grumbled, scratching the hairy caterpillar he called a mustache under his nose.

  The price had gone up since last week, and Elaine groaned at that. Marlow was a corpulent man who loved his tokens almost as much as he loved the emberleaves she'd catch him snorting on occasion. "I don't suppose I can get you to lower the price, now can I?" Elaine asked, offering him but a fraction of a smile. When he didn't reply—aiming instead an unamused scowl—Elaine knew she wouldn't progress much with him. Not today. And so she fiddled with the satchel resting on her waist, digging up the four tokens he'd demanded. He snatched them from her with his bloated sausage fingers, resting three of them on the table and raising the last to his lips. He bit it. "It isn't fake," Elaine said, rolling her eyes. When the chip didn't budge, Marlow grumbled in disappointment. Was he hoping it was fake so he could call for the military officers? He did favor the spotlight, that Marlow.

  "Can't ever be too sure around here," he grunted. He quickly ducked behind his cluttered market stall, his hands busy fiddling with an assortment of objects that clanked and scratched against each other; the distinct sound suggested the presence of glass bottles. When he finally stood up, his half-opened eyes met hers with a sudden intensity, as if awakening from a daze. Without a word, he plopped a crumpled paper bag onto the table with a slightly exaggerated flourish, the faint rustle of its contents hinting at what was inside. Elaine leaned closer to peek inside. All of them were there, all six of them. Plump, partially ripe plumberries. These would help to make Mother's rash elixir not taste so bitter. "Plucked them fresh myself. There a problem?"

  "No problem, no," said Elaine. "Actually, I was wondering about something."

  "If you're asking about the farroots again, then save your breath. I haven't received any word as of yet."

  Elaine frowned. "Fritz..."

  "Hey, language," Marlow protested, arms folded over an inflated stomach, partially bulging from beneath his shirt. "Didn't your folks teach you any better, missy? Wasn't expecting that outta such a prim face."

  "Sorry," Elaine sighed. "It's just, with those roots, we could—"

  "Not to sound cold-hearted," Marlow interrupted, scratching his set of wavy, rusted hair, "but even if you lot did get those surgin' roots, who's to say they'd work? Word on the streets is that it takes a special touch that only the, erm, magically inclined can offer. I'm by no means trying to underrate your plight, no ma'am. But, I doubt a little miss like yourself who hasn't so much as even used a wand can pull it off. As for your folks, well..."

  Elaine launched a glare at him. "Just what are you insinuating?"

  "That I wouldn't take my chances. Lest you're hoping to waste your time and tokens making a cauldron of burned farroot soup, I'd say your safest bet is hiring a Professional Sorcerer. Then again, they aren't cheap to come by, and I highly doubt one of them would be interested in visiting this sleepy old town."

  Elaine snatched the bag in her arms and started on a strut from his stall, defiant. Her emotions were sizzling, that wasn't good, she might say something she'd later come to regret. "We'll never know unless we try, right? Magic is a Gift my parents are capable of utilizing. I'm no different. Surely we can do something to help."

  "Don't say I didn't warn you, missy!" she heard him call in the distance. "There's a reason sorcerers exist!"

  Elaine took a deep breath, inhaling the musty scent of the street air that mingled with hints of fried food and freshly cut flowers from the nearby vendor stalls. She felt the weight of summer's heat bearing down on her, the sun pouring like golden rain, bathing her in a relentless warmth. With a subtle shift, she blended into the bustling crowd, becoming just another face drifting in and out of the market’s confined yet vibrant tapestry. Today, the marketplace was busier than usual—well, as crowded as a small town like Page could ever hope to be. Families meandered between stalls, their laughter punctuating the air, while vendors called out enticing offers, their voices cutting through the chatter like knives.

  While she was grateful for the passing of winter, the sweltering heat was overwhelming. It felt like a cauldron waiting to boil over, and the lack of relief from the sun's glare made her long for the cool embrace of shade. The buildings that lined the narrow streets were charming but woefully outdated, lacking the advanced arcanetech devices that wealthier cities had. What were they called again? She struggled to remember, the name slipping from her mind just as she tried to conjure it. Some of the goldblood elite flaunted those inventions, she knew—mechanisms that could lower temperatures or even conjure ice from thin air to beat the summer swelter. How wonderful that must be, she thought wistfully, as she wiped the perspiration from her brow and continued to navigate the lively throng.

  Elaine deftly sidestepped a man who was obliviously ambling forward, his attention completely absorbed by the sensational headlines sprawled across the front of a glossy tabloid. She maneuvered through the bustling marketplace, where a seemingly endless line of identical stalls stretched out like rolling hills on either side of her, their vibrant colors creating a lively mosaic against the backdrop of the sun-drenched day. The air was thick with a cacophony of sounds—shouts of enthusiastic merchants hawking their goods mingled with the rhythmic calls of clerics invoking blessings for prosperity. Each vendor gestured animatedly, vying for her attention with a mix of cheerful banter and spirited proclamations, showcasing everything from fragrant spices to intricately woven textiles. Elaine was no stranger to their tactics; she navigated this lively spectacle with practiced ease, fully aware that their enticing offers came at prices she simply couldn't afford. With her purse feeling noticeably light, she pressed on, determined to stay focused amid the vibrant chaos that surrounded her. She needed to get home before...

  Wait, that sound.

  She recognized it.

  Elaine spun in a different direction, her curiosity piqued by the captivating melody dancing into her ears. It was a sound that cut through the cacophony of marching boots thudding against the packed dirt, the urgent shouts of vendors hawking their wares, and the cheerful laughter of children chasing one another nearby. She felt a magnetic pull toward the source, prompting her to hastily strut down Blackwell Avenue, her heart quickening with anticipation. As she drew closer, she found herself facing a small crowd, huddled in a loose semicircle around an unseen performer. The audience was modest, just fourteen souls, yet their attentiveness filled the air with a collective tension. Just as Elaine stepped forward to catch a glimpse, one man, visibly bored and disinterested, abruptly shuffled past her. His shoulder brushed against hers, and she fumbled slightly, her grip on the bag of plumberries tightening to prevent a spill.

  Those who remained captivated by the scene seemed to focus intently on a solitary figure seated cross-legged on the ground, a delicate flute cradled in his hands. His lips, tightly pursed, pressed gently against the instrument's fluttering embouchure, and the Bard’s fingers danced effortlessly across the surface of the flute, each note cascading forth like a stream of color, forming a complex yet majestic tapestry of blue and purple smoke that swirled around him, twisting into intricate shapes and images. As the enchanting melody surged, the first apparition took form—a towering giraffe, its elongated neck stretching skyward, its grace accentuated by the way the shimmering smoke depicted the spots on its hide in swirling patterns. Above his head, a long, slender creature appeared, its wings glinting like jewels; the Bard conjured what Elaine recognized to be a dragon, one of the exotic varieties from the East, its expressive eyes glinting with mischief. It soared in tight circles, the smoke curling from its maw crafted to imitate fierce flames, flickering with hues of red and orange that contrasted beautifully with the swirling colors. At the Bard's feet, humanoid figures took shape, their forms gradually solidifying from the mist. Elaine rolled her eyes, smirking as she did. At it again, are you?

  The Bard was a spindly fellow dressed in an aged linen shirt and baggy trousers. A cap sat neatly atop his stretched head, spiky dark hair protruding from underneath. "Gather around, I say. Gather," the Bard called. But he only lost another audience member, the yawning woman tugging her child along with her as she departed. Now, he was down twelve. "Tell me, any one of you, have you ever heard the story of the Red Hare of Black Grove?"

  None of them, Elaine included, said a word.

  "What?!" he gasped, appalled. "Why, I'm at a loss. And here I thought it was somewhat of a classic. Shows how much I know, aye? Nevertheless, I suppose this shall be a learning experience for all of you. Now, how did it start...err...Oh! Yes, that's right. So we've all seen our cotton-tailed buddies hopping around before, haven't we? I spotted one just yesterday, though it was hanging out the snout of a fox. Haha! But this hare—the Red Hare—wasn't like the rest of his kin. Oh, no. You see, he was sick, suffering from a terrible poison. What a tragic fate it was."

  "What kind of poison?" asked an older gentleman standing beside Elaine.

  "This hare loved to run. In fact, it was his favorite thing to do," the Bard continued, completely ignoring the inquiry. "Many who saw him claimed he moved so fast that he could beat a jackal in a sprint. Others declared that he could hop so high that he could clear a mountain in a single jump. Well, you know how hares are. They're pretty good at hare-ing. Ha! This is why, I imagine, the Red Hare did what he did. He heard all of the praise he was receiving. Every animal around respected him, heralded him. Elegant deers stomped their hooves in applause. Omnivous hobgoblins sang their songs with glowing stomachs. Salamanders burned in excitement. He had it all. But he wasn't satisfied, you see? He just had to go even further!"

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

  He paused his story for a moment, allowing the hushed anticipation to linger. After this brief respite, he devoted this crevasse in his narration to a vibrant new composition, treating his tiny audience to a song that was as discordant as it was mesmerizing. High-pitched notes soared like birds in a chaotic sky, interjected by deep, resonant tones that echoed like thunder. The melody morphed and twisted, creating a captivating rollercoaster of sound that seemed to dance in the air.

  As he played, swirling smoky tendrils began to animate, frolicking with a renewed sense of vigor as if each note had given them life. One particularly mischievous cloud took on the shape of the titular long-eared rodent, its outline shifting playfully. It leaped and sprinted around the Bard, a blur of smoggy red that darted and weaved like a flash of fire through the afternoon light. Elaine chuckled softly as the tiny apparition whizzed past her, racing along some invisible pathway that only it could see. Although she had witnessed countless performances, each one a delightful spectacle in its own right, she found herself utterly entranced this time. It wasn't solely the plot of his story that captivated her; rather, it was the magic he wove into reality with each note, transforming the mundane world around her into something mystical.

  His flute, which was as long as a man's arm, had been enchanted with magical properties, allowing him to present them with this dazzling display. How unfortunate it was that most people these days weren't impressed by his antics anymore. She remembered him being quite popular when he randomly appeared in town sometime last year. Miniature purple clouds erected into different shapes, replicating what appeared to be trees. "This hare, this poor, misguided fool," the Bard said, eyes closed. "He made a challenge to himself: he would run around the entirety of Black Grove in under a day. No hare had ever accomplished such a feat, and no hare ever would."

  The foggy creature galloped on its muscular legs, although it didn't move as it had before. It stayed floating right where it was, directly in front of the Bard's line of vision. The "trees," on the other hand, zoomed past it in a hurry, giving the impression that the hare was traveling as quickly as a thunderbolt through a forest. "He ran and ran and ran and ran. He didn't stop for water or food, nor did he ever retire at sundown. Not even as he felt his legs crack, his lungs burn, his consciousness fading. Then, as fatigue vanquished his stubbornness—" The Bard suddenly crescendoed a scale up to the Twin Sisters, and a new, monstrous figure materialized, pouncing on the Red Hare, mercilessly flailing it around in its fangs until it went limp. "Our hero meets his unfortunate end, murdered by a beast that cared not for fame or recognition or power or enjoyment. It merely wanted to sate its hunger."

  A rather abrupt, if not grim, ending to the tale, Elaine had to admit. The cloudy images that had danced around them dissipated like mist in the morning sun, leaving behind an unsettling stillness. The Bard, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion of weaving such a poignant narrative, rested the delicate flute on his lap, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Yet, the silence that enveloped the gathering felt heavy and awkward. Everyone stood motionless, their expressions a blend of confusion and disbelief, perhaps struggling to comprehend the weight of what they had just witnessed. Were they anticipating a triumphant conclusion, more notes of hope, or a final flourish that would tie the tale together in a satisfying bow? A full minute ticked by, filled only with the sound of a distant breeze rustling the leaves, and one by one, the audience began to disperse. There was no applause, no enthusiastic exchanges of praise—only a muted shuffle of feet and the soft murmur of disappointment hanging in the air.

  The Bard puckered his dry lips, spitting out a whistle. "Boy, tough crowd."

  "Pride," Elaine said. The Bard looked up from his lap, wearing a puzzled expression. But his dimpled smile resurfaced as he absorbed her into his dark eyes. "That was the poison you mentioned earlier, wasn't it? Pride."

  The Bard cocked his head. "Come again?"

  "The Red Hare was poisoned by pride. He was too arrogant in his thinking, leading him to assume he could do something he obviously could not. He quite literally ran straight for his own demise, slain by a creature with far more simplistic motivations. The story's moral was not to let pride lead us astray."

  "That...certainly is one way of looking at it," the Bard snickered, amused.

  "So, am I wrong?"

  "Not wrong," the Bard answered, wagging a finger at her, "you're just not seeing the bigger picture. Overambition, my dear. That was the Red Hare's downfall. It's okay if you're naturally good at something. I think one should take pride in that in which they excel. But problems arise if you keep trying to climb that mountain without ever once pausing to catch your breath. Inevitably, you'll tumble right back to the bottom. Now, if you're lucky, like me, you'd just need to brush yourself off and start over. If not? Splat! Another story ends, and a new journey begins."

  Elaine groaned. "Talking to you is always such a headache. You're crazy."

  "And yet you always come back for more! Now, who's the crazy one?" he laughed. "So, oh Girl of Light, she who dreams of gold in her slumber. What have you got there?"

  "Plumberries."

  "Oh! Just what the Medical Mage ordered! Performing on the daily can be pretty draining."

  "Ah, ah! Not so fast. These are for potions, not dinner," Elaine snarled, swinging the bag out of his reach before he had the chance to swipe it. In disappointment, he slumped back on the ground, leaning against the stone building behind him. "You know, if you're so hungry, you could always just get a real job."

  The Bard gasped, covering his mouth. "A real job?"

  "That's what I said..."

  "You insult me, fair maiden! For you see, this is my real job!" He twirled his silver flute—marked in intricate patterns of twisting, archaic symbols—in his hand, fostering another sly grin. "Entertaining these fine patrons of Page is my greatest joy! Sure, it's not the most profitable. But hey, it makes me happy. That's all I can ever ask for!"

  "No offense," Elaine said, "but I don't think the people around here are particularly, uh, enamored by your stories."

  "Sadly, I must agree. Though I believe they'll recognize my brilliance soon enough. I just have to be patient."

  If nothing else, Elaine had to compliment him for his determination. Others around here would have jumped ship a long while ago. "Why not test your talents in the Capital?"

  "Where is it you think I came from? At least here, I don't have to fear being assaulted by projectile tomatoes. I tell you, people these days have no appreciation for the arts. It's discouraging. Truly, this Era of Magic leaves little room for anything else, even if it was gift-wrapped by Aeris herself."

  "The world's cruel, yes. But that doesn't mean we have to be." With a free hand, Elaine pulled out the small, blue-colored token from her satchel. She knelt down and dropped it into the Bard's bruised, dirty palm. "My father taught me that when I was young. Helps me to remember there's always light at the end of every tunnel."

  "A...A sapphire...?" the Bard stammered. "I can't possibly accept this. I mean, I'm all for being acknowledged by my fans but...but this is..."

  "Just think of it as payment."

  "Payment...?"

  "For your performance, obviously." Elaine felt something fuzzy clog her chest, and she continued down the crowded market street with a skip in her stride. It wasn't much, but spending even the tiniest drop of light had the potential to change a life.

  *

  * *

  There wasn't a line at Harwood's Potions. It wasn't even closing time yet.

  Elaine lived on the outskirts of Page, just before a meadow that separated civilization from the wilderness, a forest of pine trees fracturing the horizon's perfect, flat blade. She found her father twiddling with an empty glass vial inside of the market stall lodged awkwardly into the lower floor of the otherwise plain-looking cottage. The swashing of water against stone racing down a winding river sounded close by. Milo was lying on the front lawn, right where she'd left him. He had his four legs hunched in the air, and his tongue hung past his fangs and onto billowing knives of grass. Elaine chuckled; she reckoned the large dog would stay there for another hour or so. Lazy mutt. She sat at one of the booth's three stools and set the bag on the table. "Six plumberries, just as you requested."

  "Finally. I'm starving." Before Elaine could stop him, her father had already taken a sopping munch out of one of the blue-colored fruits covered in yellow polka dots, juice dripping off his hand. He chewed in contentment, a warm smile spreading on his face.

  Elaine felt her annoyance simmer like a kettle set on a stove for too long. She glared at him, and her father winced momentarily, nearly choking on the fruit in his mouth. "Father," she said sternly, "that was supposed to be for the potions. How will we sell anything if you keep eating all of our stock?"

  He took another bite out of it, unconcerned. "And who exactly are we selling to? It's not like we have any customers."

  Elaine wanted to scream at him, but her frustration quietly morphed into a heavy sense of defeat. She let her chin rest between her hands, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she watched him set a cloudy flask on the aged wooden table behind him, its surface marred by scratches and stains of years gone by. He was well past his middle years now, and the toll of time was unmistakable; deep lines etched themselves into the corners of his weary eyes, and his once-vibrant chocolate hair had begun to show strands of silver. The weight of constant disappointment hung heavily on his shoulders, causing his posture to slouch more each day, as if gravity itself conspired against him. If business didn’t pick up soon...

  "Where's Mom?" Elaine inquired. There wasn't humming coming out their kitchen window, nor did she hear Liam's annoying voice anywhere.

  "I believe she went out. Said she had to run some errands. Took Liam with her as well."

  That's the first bit of good news I've heard all day, she thought. "How's Ellend?"

  He took a breath, leaning his weight against the table. "Hasn't talked much today, not that that's anything out of the ordinary. Go give him a visit, will you? He's never so sour when he's around you."

  Elaine nodded, her heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and anxiety, as she stepped toward the front door. Her father’s words echoed in her mind: nobody was home. Inside, a heavy, submissive silence enveloped her, so profound it felt as if she could hear the very pulse of the house, a stillness that could render a person deaf if they listened too intently. As she ascended the worn wooden stairway, her fingers grazed the cool, polished railing, each creak beneath her feet sounding like a whisper of long-forgotten memories. At last, her frown brought her to his door.

  She reached for the handle, but her hand trembled like a fragile leaf caught in the wind. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced an artificial smile onto her lips, a carefully crafted fa?ade, and without pausing again, Elaine swung open the door, ready to greet him with laughter and light. Ellend lay peacefully in bed, asleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm

  "Hi, Brother," Elaine said in a hushed tone. No response, his eyes didn't open. "I hope you're having a pleasant dream."