[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
02:00 a.m. - Sylva River Flat Road, Road to Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (15 September 2025)
By the fourth night, I'm tired of sun and dust, so I switch to travelling under the moons.
The breeze is sharp, the sky wide open, and the two moons hang above me—one a pale silver disc, the other a blood-red lantern—painting the dirt road in an eerie light that's equal parts beautiful and wrong.
Snowball's coat shimmers under that glow, his antlers throwing ghostly patterns over the ground.
I like to think of myself as fearless, yet anything that smells of the supernatural still slides cold fingers down my spine.
The scene drags up old memories of fantasy novels—overpowered protagonists, ridiculous harems, kingdom-building, reincarnation. The usual isekai starter pack.
I snort.
Somehow they always ended up with someone. I'd never even had a girlfriend back on Earth, yet the wish for a family still sits stubbornly in my chest.
Lost in those thoughts, I almost miss the shadow that flickers across the path ahead. Snowball doesn't. He surges forward, hooves drumming, easily hitting 4-5 kilometres per hour.
By the time I see the woman standing dead centre on the road, it's too late for grace. I yank the reins. Snowball skids, hooves kicking dirt, and stops a breath away from her.
I don't.
I fly past the saddle and hit the ground hard enough to see stars—different from the ones above.
For a second, all I taste is dust and surprise. When my vision steadies, she's still there.
Seraphina.
Even in simple clothes, she looks like a battle hymn given flesh. Scars cross her skin like old stories, her long crimson hair catches the moons' glow, and her eyes—sharp, pale—seem to hold the twilight itself.
I force my voice to work. "Are you okay, madam? Did we hit you?"
She barely glances at me, expression unreadable. Snowball snorts behind me, offended on everyone's behalf.
"What's your name, madam? Mine's Ryan."
"Sera," she replies eventually, her voice clipped and cool.
Then, as if I'm the one who appeared out of nowhere, she says, "Where are you going, commoner?"
"I'm headed to Frosthaven. Want to come along?" My tone comes out more hopeful than I'd like. Great. Nothing says 'not desperate' like inviting the dangerous stranger you just almost ran over.
She doesn't answer right away. Her gaze slides past me to the empty road behind, then to Snowball, then to the tree line. She's not just looking—she's measuring. Threats, angles, escape routes. Her hand rests lightly near her hip, where a weapon could be, even dressed like this.
Frosthaven isn't just a name to her; I can see her testing it, weighing what it means to walk into an enemy city without coin, rank, or escort.
At last, she gives the smallest, controlled nod. Not surrender—decision.
Relief loosens my shoulders. I tell myself it's because travelling in a pair is safer. I ignore the part of me that's just tired of talking to myself.
She looks like she stepped straight out of the kind of fantasy art that got me through high school—which is exactly why I don't completely trust her. Beautiful people wrapped in steel usually come with flags, armies, and trouble.
Still… an endless dark road alone, or one dangerous stranger with a sword and a spine of iron?
I've been alone long enough. I know which risk I'm taking.
"Snowball," I call.
The Antlersteed trots back to us, antlers glimmering faintly under the red moonlight.
I place a steady hand on Snowball's neck, then turn to her and offer my hand instead.
"Ladies first."
A tiny twitch pulls at her eye—annoyance, or amusement, or both. But she takes my hand anyway and swings up behind me with effortless grace.
My heart thuds faster than Snowball's hooves as we move off beneath the red moon's gaze.
"So, Sera-chan," I venture, drawing out the suffix, "what brings you out here at night?"
Another flick of annoyance, like a spark under ice. "I do not understand your fondness for that word, commoner."
"It's a custom where I'm from," I say. "Means friendliness. Camaraderie."
"Camaraderie," she repeats, flat, as if tasting it for poison. "This land is steeped in danger. Levity dulls the edge. There is little cause for it."
"That just makes it more exciting," I answer. "Who knows what we'll meet? Maybe a dragon. Or some evil sorcerer."
"Dragons," Sera murmurs. "You think them mere tales?"
"Oh, I'd love to meet one up close. And ride it."
"Your imagination appears… undisciplined," she says.
"The world is vast," I begin, my voice slipping into that airy tone I use whenever I drift back to my old life. "If you think about it… all of us should choose something we want to do before we leave this world behind. Something big enough that we won't regret later."
The night air tastes cold on my tongue. I tip my head back, looking up at constellations I still don't know.
"Even if it's impossible," I continue with a faint smile, "a dream so far out of reach that people laugh at you for it. At least—at the very least—you tried."
I lift my gaze fully to the sky, as if I could still see the constellations of my old world.
"Did you know?" I say softly. "I once dreamed of travelling through space."
Snowball's hooves keep their steady rhythm. Sera doesn't answer. I can't see her face; I can only talk into the dark.
"Too expensive even for me back then. I never made the journey myself. But…" I pause, letting the silence stretch around us. "One of my creations did. Something I designed—my own work—was sent into the far reaches of space. It's just digital information, but it made my dream come true."
She says nothing after that.
Snowball's glowing antlers cast a soft halo over the road as we ride on. The rhythm of his hooves beats time with the quiet between us. Somewhere in that silence, under the watch of a blood-red moon and its pale companion, I feel the first faint stirrings of camaraderie take root—fragile, uncertain, but real.
---
[POV Seraphina First-Person] [Tense: Present]
04:00 a.m. - At Moorland, Road to Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (15 September 2025)
Snow crunches under Snowball's hooves. The air bites, thin and clean, the kind of cold that keeps a soldier awake on watch.
Behind the commoner's words, that cold feels merciful.
"…into the far reaches of space," he finishes, voice soft, almost reverent.
Space.
Whatever that is.
Either he is a lunatic who weaves fantasies and believes them, or he lies for sport. Both types die fast on a real battlefield. My fingers itch.
His voice doesn't stop. It lingers in my ears even when he finally shuts up, like smoke that clings to armor. Dreams, impossible goals, stars, distance. Pretty sounds, no weight.
I ride behind him, arms loose around his waist, eyes on the road ahead. The Antlersteed's antlers glow pale under the twin moons, guiding us across the empty moor. His back shifts with each breath, relaxed, unguarded, as if the world cannot hurt him.
I could slide a blade between his ribs. Quick thrust, twist, pull. Let him fall, keep the beast, vanish before dawn. No witnesses. No questions. One less idiot who thinks the world exists to applaud his dreams.
The thought settles in my chest with dark comfort.
I drop my right hand from his cloak and let it drift to my belt, to the hidden weight under the rough traveller's tunic. My fingers brush leather, then the cool, smooth line of the hilt.
Soulblaze.
Mother's last gift. Not for killing. For danger detection.
I rest two fingers on the pommel.
Heat bites my skin.
My breath stalls.
It burned when I faced the Umbrathorax. It seared when I crossed blades with Lord Draemyr on that cursed field. It flared when assassins came for me in the royal hall.
Now, pressed against a harmless commoner's back, it feels hotter.
Not a gentle warmth. That is Soulblaze's warning.
(What in all hells are you?)
I keep my face still, my body steady, but I pull my hand away. The heat lingers on my fingertips, a dull ache thudding with my pulse.
So. Not a simple madman.
Killing him would not be worth the cost.
I swallow the irritation that rises with that thought. To endure a fool because my dagger whines about danger. Pathetic.
His shoulders shift, maybe sensing my movement.
"You okay back there, Sera-chan?"
Of course. The cursed suffix again.
"I am not about to fall off, commoner."
"How reassuring," he says.
My fingers curl around the empty air where Soulblaze rests under cloth.
If only you knew.
His tone holds a smile. Light. Careless. He toys with death and does not even see it.
The words he spoke before gnaw at me. Dreams. Space. Creations drifting in the dark. My men died in mud and smoke, and this one talks about far reaches beyond the sky like a child staring at the sky.
(Enough.)
I draw a slow breath, taste frost on my tongue, then break the silence myself.
"Commoner."
"Hm?"
"Your tongue runs far for someone who does not know the life goals."
He chuckles under me, the sound low.
"Harsh review. Alright… I just didn't want the journey to be too empty."
(Emptiness.)
"You claim your people send… objects into the heavens on command."
"That's the idea."
"Then why crawl on a dirt road like the rest of us?"
His chest rises, falls. He thinks.
"Because that world is gone for me. Different story now."
He dodges. He always dodges. I hear it in the way his words bend when anything sharp comes close. Titles. Nations. Allegiances. He slides past them like those things are not there".
I lean closer, so my mouth nears his ear, my voice low.
"Stories do not change flesh, commoner. Your hands are soft. No sword calluses. Your seat on this Antlersteed is poor, you bounce with each stride. Yet you own a beast of Aurelthorn and speak of land in the heavens."
Snowball snorts as if he agrees.
"Who trained you? Which lord do you serve?"
He stiffens a fraction, then relaxes again.
"No lord. I'm a merchant. And… I'm planning to be..."
"Planning to be?" I echo. "Yet you carry no wares. No cart. No guards. Only strange clothes, a foreign tongue, and a mouth full of impossible things."
The moons paint his profile silver. From this close I see the curve of his jaw tighten.
"You're very observant, Sera-chan."
"That is what keeps me still alive in this land."
"You ask a lot of questions for someone who didn't want to talk."
"My patience has limits. If I must listen to you, I prefer sense over nonsense."
He chuckled, masking his embarrassment.
"Fair. What kind of 'sense' do you want?"
At last, a chance to drag this talk back to ground.
"Frosthaven. Tell me how they treat strangers there. Laws, gates, coin. I do not enjoy walking blind into cities, even small ones."
"Well, from what I've heard, it's a trade hub—the last big city on the road to the capital, Dawnspire. Forests and hills around it, lots of people, good farms nearby. Decent place to start a business. Folks who've been there say it's pricier than most places. You've got money?"
I think of the hidden pouch at my hip. A few Drakensvale stamped crowns, some Aurelthorn silver taken from dead men on the field. Blood-weighted coin.
"I'm not," I lie to him.
"Then you'll be fine. Smile, don't stab anyone, try not to yell 'GLORY TO DRAKENSVALE' in the square, and we're golden."
My fingers dig into the fabric of his cloak.
He plays with that name and does not know how close he dances to the fire.
"Do not joke with banners, commoner."
"Touchy topic?"
"Kingdoms burn for less."
We ride through a shallow dip in the land. Frost-slick reeds bend beside a dark pool. Snowball's antlers throw pale light over a broken milestone half-buried in mud. The stag sigil of Aurelthorn stares up at me from worn stone, cracked, defaced by an old axe mark.
(Enemy land.)
Behind me, my people bleed in forests and fields under that stag's shadow. Ahead of me waits a city that flies it.
And here, between both, I sit on an Aurelthorn beast behind a man with no weapons.
I draw in another breath, steady, then push the next question, sharper.
"What is your purpose in Frosthaven?"
"Guilds," he answers without pause. "Information. Maps. Maybe a small business if I can swing it."
"Commerce, then."
"Yeah. Knowledge, too. I like understanding the systems that run a place."
Systems.
He speaks like Lyscia when she stares at troop ledgers and grain counts, like she sees a web under everything.
I file that away.
"Then use that clever mind of yours," I murmur, tone light, almost amused.
"Tell me, oh dreamer of space, how does a nobody merchant with soft hands and no surname ride an Antlersteed, symbol of your precious kingdom, without a spear through his back?"
"Actually, my surname is Mercer. It may seem like I'm just a commoner now, but I promise you, before long I'll be one of the most powerful merchants in this world"
His fingers tighten on the reins. Snowball tosses his head, bells on the bridle chiming a faint, cold note.
"Your story sounds fascinating, great dreamer," I say.
"If I remember correctly, we should be almost there."
And until Soulblaze cools, I will not kill you.
So talk, strange commoner.
---
[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
06:00 a.m. - At Front Gate, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (15 September 2025)
Trees fall away like a curtain, and Frosthaven stands there in the cold light, real as stone.
Low walls of pale stone, rooftops dusted white, smoke seeping from chimneys in thin grey lines. Lanterns fade as dawn brightens, their last glow sliding over cobbles. Frost clings to everything, turning the streets into a sketch half-erased by the sun.
Snowball's hooves thud from dirt to stone. His antlers shed that soft silver light, catching every breath of frost in the air.
"Nice work, Snowball."
His ears flick back. He snorts, smug.
Behind me, Sera shifts her weight, cloak hood low over her face.
"You praise beasts often, Mercer?"
"Only the ones that carry my useless ass 90 kilometers without complaining."
"Your ass complains enough for both."
I huff a laugh. Fair.
The front gate isn't some giant fortress thing, more a solid arch with a pair of stout towers. A stag banner hangs limp in the still air, crimson and silver. Two guards in mail lean on spears, breath puffing white.
Then they see Snowball, and their backs straighten like someone yanked a string.
"Hold there!"
The older one steps out, eyes on the antlers first, then on me. His hand rests on his spear but doesn't rise.
"That is an Antlersteed. Whose service do you ride in, traveler?"
"My own," I answer. "Bought him fair in Eryndral. Papers… not included."
His brows knit.
"Few smallfolk sit a antlersteed."
Sera's grip tightens briefly on my belt.
The guard studies Snowball. The big idiot chooses that moment to nuzzle my shoulder.
A Thief!
I spread my hands.
"I'm a merchant. Heading for Frosthaven to join a guild, maybe rent a stall if prices don't murder me."
The younger guard eyes my clothes, my accent, Sera's hood.
"Merchant, no cart, no goods, strange tongue."
"Hey take it easy."
"I'm really a merchant," I say. "My asset ended in Eryndral Village after war. I plan to survive this longer."
The older guard's gaze lingers on my face, then drops to my coin pouch as it clinks when I shift.
"Entry toll. 1 silver for the beast, 2 for the pair of you. Cause no trouble, you'll find none."
I fish out 3 Aurelthorn silvers Draemyr gave me and drop them into his palm. Cold bites my fingers; the metal feels heavier than it should.
He nods.
"Stables just inside on the right. Frostlight Square straight ahead if you seek trade. For beds, the Frosted Mug is clean enough and cheap. Don't ride that one too proud in the open and you'll draw fewer eyes."
"Noted."
We pass under the arch. The city swallows us, cobbles ringing under Snowball's hooves, sound bouncing between stone fronts and shuttered windows. Smell of baking bread slides in under the usual woodsmoke and leather.
"Smells… good," I murmur.
"Smells like somewhere that doesn't burn," Sera answers, so low I almost miss it.
---
06:15 a.m. - At Frosted Mug, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (15 September 2025)
The Frosted Mug squats near the gate, two stories of timber and stone with a painted sign of a foaming tankard crusted in real frost. Warm light spills from its windows, yellow against the blue morning.
A sleepy stableboy leads Snowball away, half-awed, half-terrified by the antlers.
"You treat him right," I say.
"Yes, sir," the boy mutters, insulted into wakefulness.
Inside, heat hits like a blanket. The taproom smells of bread, onions, and stale ale. A few early risers hunch over bowls and mugs, eyes on us as we enter.
I step to the counter.
"Two beds, one room, for 1 week. And a meal if the kitchen's awake."
The innkeep, a broad woman with salt in her dark hair, wipes her hands on her apron.
"1 week is 70 copper coins for one medium room."
"Yeah."
I slide three silvers over. Her eyes flick to Sera's cloak, then back to me.
"Lover?"
"Just an acquaintance," Sera answers before I can. "I only travelled with him."
The woman's mouth quirks.
"Good division. Room on the second floor. Last door left. Porridge and bread in a bit."
I feel a chill down my spine when she says "porridge." I still remember the corn-soup-flavoured dish I ate back in Eryndral all too well. Food in this world seems to focus more on aroma than taste.
She drops a key into my hand.
On the stairs, Sera's voice drifts up behind me.
"Commoner, move quickly. My legs prefer ground that does not sway."
It's not surprising she doesn't like stairs.
she's about 6 foot 4. When you're that tall and you look down at your feet, every step feels like a chance to fall.
After that, we went to the room.
The room is simple: two narrow beds, a small table, one chair, a tiny window fogging with our breath as soon as we shut the door. Noise from the street comes as a soft murmur.
I drop my pack by the bed and sit. The mattress creaks but doesn't complain much.
"We made it," slips out before I can stop it.
Sera lowers her hood. Dawn light catches the damp ends of her crimson hair, the sharp line of her jaw, the exhaustion bruised under her eyes.
"For now," she answers, then lets herself fall back onto the other bed, boots and all.
"You stay here," I tell her. "I have some business to attend to."
I leave her alone in the room with my bag, hoping she won't steal it. She probably won't—if she'd wanted to rob me, she'd have done it on the road.
In my opinion, she looks like an adventurer with some scars, but nothing too serious. It seems like she has incredibly strong abs and arms; she's taller than me. She looks like she could strangle me at any moment.
Ahhh, that's my type.
---
10:00 a.m. - At Merchant Guild, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (15 September 2025)
The Chamber of Commerce bustles like an anthill stirred with a stick. Elegant wooden doors swing open, revealing an interior throbbing with activity and purpose. People bustle about, engaged in negotiations, transactions, and genial greetings—commerce serenading the air with its harmony of dissonance.
Every corner seems charged with potential. My senses are on high alert as I step inside, feeling the pulse of opportunity vibrating beneath the guild's structure. It's alive, this place. So much going on, yet a sense of order persists.
I approach the reception desk—a striking figure catches my eye. She's garbed in the deep blue and cream of the Merchant Guild. She introduce "Ellara Brightmire - Guild Receptionist." Calm radiates from her, punctuated by a professional yet warm smile as she greets me.
"Good morning! Interested in registration, Mister…?"
"Ryan Mercer," I respond, mirroring her easy tone. "I'd like to apply for the merchant guild."
Her nod carries approval as she reaches for a ledger. "We have a numerical proficiency test included in the registration. Are you prepared for that?"
Ah, of course there's a catch. Numbers aren't the issue. It's the language—my greatest adversary in this new world. But as Ellara outlines the procedure, mentioning the vocalization of questions, I find relief sneaking in.
"I'll manage," I assert, hoping my observations translate into adequate understanding.
Ellara directs me to the testing room—long wooden tables, scattered quills, and ready parchments invite me into focused silence. She explains the fee—one silver coin for the test materials.
Silver slips from my pouch to her palm, and she hands over the materials, gesturing toward an open desk.
Seated, I drown out the chatter, focusing entirely on the calm quiet that envelops the test takers. Determination sinks its roots into me.
The examiner enters, guiding us through with steady articulation. Each question, a puzzle—language no longer feels like an insurmountable wall but a mountain to climb.
Metric by metric, calculation by calculation, I navigate the questions, the occasional struggle sliding into triumph. Relief coats my nerves as the last answer slips from lead to parchment.
Ellara accepts my answer sheet with a nod of thanks. "Let's hope that's up to standard," I half-joke.
Her smile is warm. "Best of luck. Results will be available shortly."
Don't worry, Ryan. on earth, I've always gotten A+ in math!
If it weren't for the language barrier...
---
02:00 p.m. - At Herbal Shop, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (15 September 2025)
I step out of the Merchant Guild. I'm craving bacon and runny fried eggs. I don't know how livestock farming really worked in the Middle Ages, but it's probably winter here—past harvest. Livestock needs a lot of feed. All I can do is wait for the next season to figure out how to fix this world's flavour problem.
Money first.
The herbal shop squats halfway down a narrow lane, wedged between a cooper and a weaver. Bundles of drying plants hang under the eaves, a curtain of greens and purples. Someone painted a mortar and pestle on the sign, no words.
A bell clacks when I push the door. Warm, damp air hits me, thick with leaf, resin, and something that bites like menthol. Shelves line the walls, crammed with jars and bundles.
A man looks up from grinding something in a stone bowl. Thinning brown hair tied back, sleeves rolled above corded forearms. Lines at the eyes, but the gaze is sharp.
"Afternoon, traveller. You seek a remedy, or do you bring the herbs with you?"
I set my cloth-wrapped bundle on the counter and unroll it. "Bit of both. I gathered these near Eryndral. Looking to sell, if the price is fair."
His hands still. He leans in.
Healing Balm shoots its fresh green in the light, Sootheleaf darker beside it. Nightshade berries glisten like drops of ink. Frostbloom keeps its faint rim of cold on the petal edge, and the lone Mystic Fern frond catches a beam from the window.
He whistles through his teeth. "You walked far under those trees."
"I stayed near the road." Liar, liar. "Got lucky."
"Luck does not pluck Mystic Fern and leave the fingers attached." He lifts the frond with reverence. "And Frostbloom, whole, without scorch." His eyes flick to my hands, searching for burns. "Most men who bring these walk in with fewer pieces."
He sorts quickly, lips moving. "Healing Balm, 3 bunches. Sootheleaf, 5. Nightshade, 2 sprigs—ripe, curse you. Firethorn, 4 stems. Moonflower, 6. Ironroot, 2. Mystic Fern, 1. Bramblethorn, 3. Lunar Peppermint, 2. Bloodberry, 4. Frostbloom, 1. Starlight Herb, 3."
He taps the counter, runs invisible math. I do my own, faster.
"For the whole lot…" He lays it out on his palm with each tap. "Common greens, 8 copper. Mid-forest stock—Firethorn, Moonflower, Bramblethorn, Bloodberry—another 14. The rare tongues…" He looks almost pained. "Nightshade prepared right saves lives. Frostbloom heals burns without scar. Mystic Fern clears thoughts clouded by spell-sickness. For those, 2 silver and 8 copper."
Total flashes in my head. Twenty-two copper. Plus 2 silver. Three silver exactly.
He names it. "3 silver coins, round. Final."
Thanks, Jonas, at least he didn't get scammed by the other herbalist.
Solid middle.
I close the cloth over the empty impressions and nod. "Deal."
He counts the silver into my hand. Heavy, honest weight. My purse still feels pathetic but now from start is ok.
"You have a healer's eye," he goes on. "Keep walking that forest, I buy whatever you do not use—if you live to crawl back."
I collected herbs for stupid research, but eventually, what he needed to do first was manage the cost of living in this world.
"I plan to." I tuck the coins away. "Since I'm new in Frosthaven… mind if I ask a few things?"
"Questions cost nothing. Answers, sometimes." A hint of humour curls his mouth.
"Blacksmith? Someone who fixes metal, tools, maybe… odd designs."
"Down this lane, turn right at the bakehouse. Follow the ring of hammers. You'll find Murdock Forge before your ears forgive you."
"Good food that won't poison a stranger?"
He snorts. "If your belly is soft, avoid the stronger stalls. The food in this city is delicious, but if you're still not satisfied, I recommend cooking it yourself."
Those words pierce my heart. If I'm going to cook, I need kitchen equipment—and a place to live.
I hesitate on the last one. "And… maps. Of the kingdom. Or at least the area between here and Dawnspire."
He actually laughs, short and startled. "Maps, he says, like asking for gold from haven."
I lift a shoulder. "I like knowing where I am."
"Then stay in Frosthaven." His smile warms, but the words hit. "Proper charts sit in noble libraries, war tents, and the High Guild Halls in Dawnspire. A scribe might scratch you a local sketch for a week's wages, but lines on parchment do not come cheap."
So no GooGaa Maps. No printed atlas aisle. Just vibes and rumours.
"Right. Of course they don't."
"If you must roam, ask caravan masters. Their tongues carry the roads better than ink." He leans back to his mortar. "Spend your silver on boots, not drawings."
Outside again, the air feels cooler. I jingle the pouch once. Ten silver from Draemyr, sliced by toll, clothes, Antlersteed, tests, inn, meals… now patched a little by plants Jonas taught me to name.
Not bad for weeds.
Blacksmith later. One more stop first.
Adventurers' Guild.
---
03:00 p.m. - At Adventurer's Guild, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (15 September 2025)
The Adventurer's Guild sits close to Frostlight Square, a hulking timber hall with a sword and staff crossed on the sign. Laughter and shouting spill into the street before I even touch the door.
Inside, it feels like someone stuffed an MMO lobby into a barn.
Long tables groan under plates and mugs. someone roasts meat on an iron spit. A board on the far wall is furred with parchment, every scrap pinned by a dagger or a nail. Voices crash over each other—boasts, curses, bargaining.
Chain mail clinks as a squad of humans in mismatched armor shoulder past a trio of adventurers arguing in low, sharp bursts.
No tutorial. Just chaos.
Maybe I'll come back tomorrow instead. There are so many people here.
---
05:00 p.m. - At Frosted Mug, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (15 September 2025)
By the time I drag myself back up to our room at the Frosted Mug, my legs feel like wet rope.
Sera still owns the bed. Boots off, cloak folded near her feet, eyes half‑lidded. Looks relaxed. Every line of her shoulders says otherwise.
I drop onto the stool by the tiny table and pull out my notebook. The familiar scratch of the cheap stick of graphite calms me while I jot down the day.
"guild test, herbal shop, the chaos at the Adventurer's Hall."
My hand stalls.
The pen in my fingers is just a shaved twig jammed with charcoal. At the guild, the clerk used a feather. At the herbal shop, same. Quills and sticks everywhere. Feathers, wood, soft metal. Nothing rare. Nothing hard.
A metal‑nib pen almost draws itself in my head.
I flip to a fresh page and begin to sketch. Barrel length. A split steel nib, curved, narrow. Tiny slit for capillary flow. Socket to hold it in a simple wooden shaft. Maybe a thin tube for extra ink so you don't dip every 3 lines.
"The pen is a tool for creation," slips out under my breath while I draw.
Sera's gaze hooks on the page. "What are you scratching there, commoner?"
"First product line." I tap the sketch. "Metal‑nib pen. Easier to write, lasts longer than bird feathers."
Her brow creases. "All this fuss… for letters?"
"A Book. Ledgers. Maps. Everything." My mind races ahead. "Metal is cheap if shaped right. A blacksmith can punch out a hundred of these in a day once we get a mold."
I add arrows and rough measurements, already picturing a forge, glowing steel, a confused smith staring at this weird narrow strip I want him to cut.