Once they had finished their meal, they left the inn and headed toward the market. They emerged onto the main square, where wooden stalls lined up beneath colorful canvas awnings.

  “Golden apples at an unbeatable price.”

  “Premium dried meats, straight from the mountains.”

  They stopped in front of a stall. On the herbalist’s stand, glass vials with opalescent hues stood alongside ceramic jars sealed with wax, their handwritten labels promising countless wonders: “Moon Chamomile,” “Elixir of Life,” “Evening Balm,” and “Dream Powder.”

  Wooden boxes held packets of teas and dried herbs. Beside them, stone mortars and pestles waited for plants to be ground.

  Behind the counter, the herbalist poured a liquid into a mortar. Her gray hair was braided and dotted with small wildflowers, and her green eyes shone brightly. She wore a dark brown linen dress, cinched at the waist with a leather belt from which various tools hung: silver scissors, small knives, and knotted sachets of seeds.

  Two customers were waiting their turn. The first, a middle-aged man, leaned against the edge of the stall, his back bent.

  “This pain in my back has been gnawing at me for weeks. What can you give me?” he asked.

  “As for me, it’s migraines,” a woman said. “They strike when I wake up and don’t leave until nightfall. The village healer’s potions do nothing. If you have something effective, I’ll take it.”

  She nodded, then let her fingers slide over the label of a clay jar.

  “Apply it twice a day, massaging the base of your spine. But if you keep carrying heavy loads, your back will continue to suffer.”

  The man sighed before taking the mixture.

  The herbalist then turned her attention to the woman and picked up a small box.

  “For your migraines, take these infusions of valerian root and lavender. One cup in the morning and one in the evening, and above all, avoid strong alcohol.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then come back and see me. There is always another plant, another remedy. You just have to find the one that suits you.”

  The woman placed a coin on the counter before taking her remedy.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  They then passed by the blacksmith’s workshop. Bare-chested beneath a leather apron, he was hammering a glowing blade laid across his anvil. With each strike, sparks burst forth, lighting up his face, weathered by heat. Farther on, the shimmer of fabrics caught Ambre’s eye. Bolts of cloth unfurled in a gradient of colors and textures, from coarse linen to silk. Her fingers brushed against a blue fabric.

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  A little farther along, the scent of pastries filled the air, drawing passersby toward a stall where a baker with a round face and rosy cheeks bustled behind her counter. Fruit tarts, golden loaves sprinkled with aromatic herbs, and stacks of biscuits waited to be chosen.

  “Taste this. It’s my specialty,” she said, handing Ambre a slice of tart.

  Ambre bit into the crust, and a gentle warmth spread across her tongue, mingled with the sweet and tangy flavor of the fruit.

  “Delicious,” she murmured.

  A bit farther on, a stall overflowed with wheels of cheese. Some, cracked and coated with a thin layer of mold, gave off powerful aromas, while others, smooth and waxed, gleamed softly. Goats grazed calmly nearby, tethered to wooden stakes.The merchant, a man wearing an apron stained with salt and milk, pointed to a round wheel with a golden rind.

  “This one comes from the high hills. It was aged for six months in a stone cellar. A robust, fruity flavor.”

  A bard, seated on an overturned barrel, brushed the strings of his lyre, drawing a crowd that had gathered around him. A little girl stepped forward and placed a flower at his feet. He smiled and gave her a wink.

  Meanwhile, children ran and laughed between the stalls, brushing past the counters to the great dismay of the merchants. A boy with tousled hair brushed against Rouis and stumbled. Before he could hit the ground, a hand caught him by the collar.

  “Watch yourself, kid,” Rouis said.

  The boy nodded and ran off.

  As they continued on their way, an armory appeared at the edge of the market. Above the entrance, a metal sign depicting a shield adorned with two crossed swords swayed gently.

  Racks sagged under the weight of countless weapons: sharpened swords, heavy axes, and maces engraved with intricate patterns. At the center of the shop, wooden mannequins wore armor ranging from breastplates to chain hauberks.

  The merchant, short and stocky, stood behind the counter, ringed fingers idly playing with a dagger.

  “Welcome.”

  Rouis grabbed a sword and spun it through the air.

  “How much?” Rouis asked.

  “Three silver coins. That’s a fair price for a blade like this.”

  “I also need a utility belt, and twelve throwing knives.”

  The merchant rummaged through the shelves, then set a belt and a case holding the weapons on the counter.

  “Seven silver coins for the whole set.”

  Rouis nodded and handed over the money while Ambre wandered among the displays.

  “Try this,” he called out.

  Her fingers closed around the hilt, and she drew the blade. It slipped from her grip and crashed to the floor.

  “It’s not for me,” she said.

  He retrieved the weapon, then turned back to the vendor.

  “Show us some daggers.”

  The merchant disappeared into the back room and returned with a velvet cushion on which three daggers rested.

  “That one,” she said.

  She picked up a marbled blade set in a violet wooden hilt.

  Rouis, for his part, chose a steel blade fitted with a braided leather handle.

  “This one will do,” he said.

  “I want the other one,” she protested.

  The merchant set a dark brown leather sheath in front of them, decorated with engraved patterns and highlighted with gold thread.

  “Six gold coins,” he announced.

  Ambre dropped the coins into the merchant’s palm. Outside, she hurried to test her new purchase. The blade sliced through the air in uneven arcs, straightening before veering off in another direction. Her foot caught on a cobblestone, and she stumbled. The dagger slipped from her hands, traced a curve, and struck the ground.

  An old man jumped in surprise.

  “Hey. Watch it, girl. Are you trying to skewer someone?”

  “Sorry,” she stammered.

  The man grumbled into his beard before moving on. Ambre bent down to pick up her weapon.

  “Impressive. You managed to terrify an old man without even touching him.”

  “Maybe you could teach me, then,” she shot back.

  “Teach you? I’d rather watch you try. It’s far more entertaining,” he replied.

  “Go ahead and mock me. One day, I’ll handle this blade better than you,” Ambre retorted.