Caw—caw!
The morning cry of a Crevtowood bird echoed across the treetops as sunlight spilled over Huina, casting long golden lines over the thatched roofs and winding dirt paths. A soft breeze drifted down from the forest, shaking dew from the tall blue-leaf trees and carrying the faint scent of pine, soil, and freshly baked rootbread.
Inside the modest home on the western edge of the village, Gilian groaned as the warmth of morning nudged him from sleep.
"Wake up! It's Merchant Day!" came Diana's voice from the kitchen—sharp and cheerful.
His eyes flew open. "Merchant Day?!"
A flurry of movement followed—wooden boards creaked as Gilian scrambled out of bed, tossing on his tunic backward before correcting it mid-hop. He nearly tripped over his boots, snatched a half-slice of bread from the table, and darted out the door.
Crumbs flew behind him like sparks.
***
By midmorning, Huina had transformed from its usual quiet rhythm into a full-blown celebration. Merchant Day, a quarterly event, was one of the rare times the village felt truly alive with outside energy.
Clatter—rattle—snap!
Wagons rolled in through the main gate, laden with barrels, crates, and colorful satchels. Merchants called out their wares, their voices mingling with laughter and the distant ring of hammers from the blacksmith's forge. Children darted between carts, squealing with delight as they snuck candied nuts from distracted vendors.
A band of musicians played near the village square—the mellow hum of reed flutes and gentle plucking of string instruments adding a pleasant rhythm to the air. The scent of grilled meats and sizzling herbs wafted on the breeze.
Gilian strolled past rows of bustling stalls, his eyes scanning the crowd.
He passed Rutina, Alice's older sister, trading a pouch of ground mana bark with a robed woman. Old Ton, the village chief, was deep in conversation with a spice merchant who gestured animatedly with stained orange hands.
The flap of a deep burgundy canopy finally caught Gilian's eye.
"Gustave!" he called.
The stout merchant turned, his wide-brimmed hat flaring slightly as he looked up. His gray-streaked beard twitched with a grin.
"Ah! Gilian—my best customer with the worst luck! Broken something again?"
Gilian raised his sagging bow. "String snapped during the last hunt. Got anything sturdy?"
Gustave rubbed his chin, fingers stained with ink and herbs. "I might just have something perfect. Come, let's take a look."
He rummaged through a chest behind his cart, pulling out coils of thread, braided cords, even one that shimmered faintly.
"Spideyra Silk Bend," he declared, holding up a gleaming black string. "Light as birdbone, strong as steelvine. Comes from the eastern marshes. Don't ask how I got it."
Gilian whistled. "Looks expensive."
"It is," Gustave said, then squinted. "Unless... Do you happen to have any old beary skin? Good condition, aged? Preferably bite-resistant."
Gilian blinked. "Actually, yeah. Two beary skins and one deer skin—from this past tenday."
Gustave lit up like a lantern. "Perfect! Let's have a look."
***
The kitchen hall storage was busy, but Gilian slipped inside and returned with the bundled hides. Gustave examined them like a jeweler inspecting gems.
"Oho… this one's old, but thick. Good wear. Still has the smell. I'll give you the silk string—and toss in a pouch of smoked spice. Deal?"
"Deal."
As they shook hands, Gilian couldn't help but ask, "Why the bite-proof gear?"
Gustave's brow furrowed. He leaned in slightly. "Rumors. Dangerous ones. People and animals biting each other. Not ghouls. Not plague. Something worse."
Gilian tilted his head. "Worse than ghouls?"
"Some say those who get bitten… change. And not just die and rise. Something inside them—twists. Becomes aggressive. Like a memory stuck on repeat. But broken."
Before Gilian could press further, a familiar voice piped up.
"What, is crazy contagious now?"
Arvan strolled up, arms behind his head, a lazy smirk on his face.
Gustave barked a laugh. "Apparently! Better wrap yourself in beary skin next hunt!"
"Pff," Arvan grinned. "Maybe I'll start selling bite-proof scarves. Call it Arvan Armor."
As they bantered, Gilian sat at the edge of the stall and began to restring his bow with the new thread.
Twang… creak… twist.
The silk bent smoothly, and despite its delicate look, it felt tough beneath his fingers.
Behind him, the conversation between Gustave and Arvan dipped lower.
"Molano's capital is under pressure," Gustave whispered. "One of the adventurer teams said a patrol was attacked outside the city walls. Bitten. Not by beasts—by people."
Arvan's expression darkened. "That's… near."
"Too near," Gustave agreed. "If it's reached Molano, it's already in the region. This isn't just a rumor anymore."
Gilian didn't catch it all. His world had shrunk to the gentle hum of the bowstring, the tension smooth and clean. It would do.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the comfort of normalcy.