The sun had already set when Roland Farter slipped through Fenwood's market gate, the last stalls closing for the night. Lanterns swung on iron hooks, their flickering light painting long shadows across cobbled streets. A hushed stillness settled over the town—broken only by the distant murmur of sentries and the soft clink of chains from the nearby guardhouse.
Roland's boots clicked against the stone as he made his way toward the northern square. This was the place the rumors had brought him: tales of a mysterious trader arriving under cover of darkness, offering "cheat items" and uncanny tools to those daring enough to seek them. Such merchants were as rare as wyverns, and often far more dangerous. Yet curiosity gnawed at Roland's thoughts—what secrets might this merchant carry, and at what cost?
As he turned the corner onto the square, Roland paused. A lone figure stood beneath a broad oak whose gnarled branches spilled into the night sky. A simple cart, draped in dark cloth, drew lantern light: glass jars of faintly glowing powder, leather pouches stamped with cryptic runes, and ornate scroll tubes carved from bone. The merchant—tall, slender, wrapped in a charcoal-grey cloak—hummed softly as he polished a brass mirror that caught Roland's eye.
Roland approached cautiously. "Good evening." His voice sounded breathy in the quiet.
The merchant looked up, eyes glittering beneath the hood. "Ah, a late visitor," he said, voice smooth as silk. "You seek—" He let the sentence drift, gesturing at the wares.
Roland hesitated before speaking. "I've heard you carry items… unusual items. I wonder—what is the price?"
The merchant's lips curved into a faint smile. "Price is… negotiable, depending on the item and the buyer's willingness to pay." He lifted a small vial of silver dust. "For this—Moonshadow Powder—you might pay a dozen silver coins." He tapped the vial. "Sprinkle it in moonlight, and you vanish for one hour."
Roland's heart skipped. He recalled Althea's ward-dust lessons—this powder vastly more potent. "A dozen silver?" He cleared his throat. "I have… fewer."
The merchant placed the vial back. "Another item, then." He slid a dark leather pouch forward. "Onyx Eye. Peer within and see a friend's true intent." He patted the pouch, as though it contained an ominous secret. "Or a foe's."
Roland frowned. Truth-seeking tools—useful, yet disquieting. "What's the cost—?"
The merchant raised a slender finger. "Curses are attached." He tapped the pouch. "To see truth is to bear guilt. Use wisely."
Roland felt a chill. He backed up. "I'll... think on it."
The merchant nodded. "I will be here until the moon sets. Others will come—seek your fortune." He gave a small bow and returned to his polishing.
Roland turned away, chest tight. He retraced his steps, mind aflame. Moonshadow Powder—an invisibility like none he'd known. Onyx Eye—truth at the cost of torment. But what of daily life? Would a cheat item finally grant him safety, or merely invite calamity?
He paused beneath a lantern. The merchant's cart stood silent behind him, mysterious as a tomb. Roland pulled out a handful of coins—just enough for one purchase. He turned back… then shook his head. No. He placed the coins back into his pouch and continued on.
---
His boots carried him back toward the keep, thoughts racing. He passed Sister Corinne's tent, where the healer bent over a wounded soldier. The quiet compassion in her care reminded Roland of the night he escorted the medical caravan: true help had a cost measured in sweat and courage, not gold or powders.
Roland reached the barracks. Exhaustion pressed on him, yet his mind wouldn't rest. He climbed the wooden stairs to his quarters and found Talia waiting, crossbow slung across her back. Her gaze was sharp.
"You saw him," she said. "The wandering merchant."
Roland nodded, slumping into a chair. "He offers powerful items… but each bears a price. I didn't buy anything."
Talia folded her arms. "I got something." She unshouldered a sealed vial. "Smoke of Silence. Toss it at pursuers—no sound for ten minutes."
Roland eyed the vial. "What's the catch?"
Talia shrugged. "Trader's words: silence cuts both ways. If used wrongly, the thrower cannot call for help, either."
Roland sat up. "I thought hidden life was better—disguises, wards—not magic with strings attached."
Talia's gaze softened. "Magic's a tool. Sometimes you need it—sometimes it needs you."
Roland stared at the vial, then slid it back onto her belt. "Thanks…but I'll pass."
Talia pocketed it. "Suit yourself." She offered a rare grin. "Some day we'll need those tricks."
Roland nodded. "One day."
That night, Roland lay awake, haunted by the merchant's wares. The promise of power—the ability to evade, to discern hearts—danced before his eyes. But every cheat item came with a curse, a chain to bind its user. He closed his eyes and made a choice: he would rely on preparation, prudence, and allies—never on shortcuts.
In the morning, the merchant was gone. No cart, no vials, no trace. Roland stepped outside just as the sun's first rays kissed the keep's battlements. A single hoofprint in the dust marked the place where the cart had stood. He pressed a hand to the print—cold memory of temptation.
He returned to the courtyard, where scouts practiced archery and recruits sparred with wooden swords. Roland joined Talia and Lira at the training boards.
Lira winked. "Heard you passed on the Mirror of Truth."
Roland met her gaze. "Truth can't always be borne."
She nodded. "Sometimes ignorance is bliss."
He sighed, watching a group of recruits overshoot targets with arrows. "Bliss won't win wars."
Talia chimed in, shouldering her crossbow. "But cunning, training, and teamwork just might." She looked at Roland. "You ready for today's lessons?"
Roland squared his shoulders. "Always ready."
And as the morning drills began, he carried with him the memory of the wandering merchant—a reminder that power without principle was a path to ruin, and that true strength lay in measured choices and the bonds between comrades.