The trading post at Three-Rivers Crossing, nestled where the swift, snow-melt mountain streams tumbled together in a frothing confluence before joining the main river flowing west from Ebonheim, had always been a place of boisterous, chaotic energy, a glorious mess held together by mutual need and the prospect of coin.

Hrafnsteinn traders, their voices naturally pitched to carry over wind and waves, haggled loudly over the price of iron ingots smelted in their riverside forges, their laughter booming against the sharp, guttural clicks and calls of Aslankoyash hunters displaying prime, carefully scraped pelts—shadow-cat, winter wolf, the occasional rare snow leopard—stretched taut on wooden frames.

Merchants from the east, their faces often bearing the dust of Kerkenberge passes, laid out shimmering silks in impossible colors beside sturdy, practical Gorgandale mining tools, the contrast a visual summary of the valley's converging worlds.

Ten years ago, this confluence was little more than a muddy, trampled clearing marked by a few leaning posts where deals were struck under open sky; now, sturdy timber stalls, roofed with rough-split shingles already greening with moss, lined a packed-earth square, a testament, humble but undeniable, to the lifeblood flowing along the Verdant Pathway Ebonheim had carved.

Yet today, a strange quietude hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying as the humidity rising from the nearby water, muffling the usual cheerful din.

Corinthian guards, their grey tunics unnervingly clean despite the muddy track leading to the post, stood posted at the four corners of the square, their faces impassive, unreadable beneath plain steel helms that caught the watery sunlight with identical, unsettling gleams.

They shifted weight rarely, their stillness less the coiled readiness of trained soldiers and more a disquieting lack of fidget, of human restlessness. They didn't interfere, not directly – no drawn blades, no overt commands – but their unwavering presence cast a pall, their eyes constantly scanning, noting transactions, recording faces, their very stillness a subtle, undeniable weight on the usual free-wheeling, often argumentative, exchanges.

Fewer Ebonheim traders seemed present today, their stalls looking somewhat sparse, their usual vibrant displays muted.

Old Man Hemlock's furs were there, yes, and Elara's dyed wools, but Borin the smith's apprentice seemed to have fewer axe heads than usual, and Mikkel's carved Ebonwood figures looked lonely on their rough blanket.

Meanwhile, the Corinthian merchants – their wares neat, standardized, almost unnervingly identical in make and measure, from pottery bowls stacked in perfect pyramids to bolts of cloth folded with geometric precision – conducted business with a quiet, efficient politeness that felt colder, more alien, than any outright hostility or haughty rudeness.

Old Hemlock, a trapper whose gnarled hands knew the feel of every root and stone in the western woods, whose family had been among the first, most desperate settlers with Engin, spread out his winter's haul – thick, glossy pelts of shadow-cats and pine martens, cured with the secret, smoke-scented skill passed down through generations.

He ran a calloused, almost reverent hand over a particularly fine marten pelt, its fur dark and rich as fertile earth after rain.

Across from him, a Corinthian merchant, face smooth as polished river stone and utterly unreadable, examined the fur with a clinical detachment, holding it up, checking the undercoat, measuring its length against his forearm with precise movements.

"Good quality, yes," the Corinthian merchant conceded finally, his voice level, devoid of the usual bargaining enthusiasm, the ritualistic dance of feigned disinterest and eventual compromise. "The Council's set price for Grade Three marten is… four copper bits per pelt." He stated it not as an offer, but as an immutable fact.

Hemlock's jaw dropped, a slackness pulling at his weathered features, making the deep lines around his mouth seem suddenly deeper. Blood rushed to his face, mottling the skin beneath his thick grey beard, and the hand resting on his furs clenched into a white-knuckled fist, the knuckles standing out like old bone.

"Four coppers?" His voice cracked with disbelief and rising fury. "Four coppers? Last season, these fetched near a silver piece each! A silver piece! That's robbery, plain and simple! Highway robbery without the decency of a drawn knife! These are prime winter furs, thick and untouched by blight! Trapped deep in the high woods, carried down on my own back!"

The Corinthian merchant offered a placid, empty smile, a mere stretching of lips over teeth, that didn't reach his eyes. "Market fluctuations, friend trapper. Supply exceeds demand this cycle, as determined by the Council's extensive projections and resource allocation protocols. Four coppers is the standing offer, regulated for fairness and stability across the valley."

He gestured vaguely, almost imperceptibly, towards the impassive guards standing sentinel at the square's edge. "Take it or leave it, the value remains fixed. The Council ensures equilibrium."

Hemlock sputtered, his hand clenching and unclenching on the pelt, the fine fur crushed in his grip. He looked around, his gaze sweeping across the subdued square, seeking support, an ally, even just a shared glance of outrage.

But the few other Ebonheim traders present avoided his gaze, suddenly finding intense interest in rearranging their own meager wares or checking the knots on their stall coverings, their own faces tight with a familiar, impotent frustration.

He saw young Elara, granddaughter of the weaver Odette, a girl whose hands could weave magic with thread, arguing quietly but intensely with another Corinthian vendor over the price of her intricately dyed woolens—vibrant blues and greens derived from forest berries and rare mosses—her hands twisting nervously in her apron.

He saw Borin, the Hrafnsteinn smith's apprentice, a lad built like a young bear, turn away from a stall selling metal tools, his shoulders slumped in defeat, clutching a set of finely honed axe heads he'd clearly failed to sell at anything approaching a fair price, their keen edges glinting uselessly in the flat light.

A cart laden with Ebonwood carvings – intricate figurines of forest spirits with mischievous eyes, sturdy, beautifully grained bowls polished smooth as river stones, small boxes inlaid with contrasting woods – rattled to a halt nearby, its wheels sinking slightly into the mud. Mikkel, the carver, a man whose quiet patience was usually reflected in his gentle hands, hopped down, his face hopeful, though perhaps a touch more worn than last season. He approached a Corinthian stall specializing in timber goods, its wares consisting mainly of unadorned, functional planks and beams.

"Greetings, friend," Mikkel began, gesturing to his wares spread on a roughspun blanket. "Finest Ebonwood, blessed by the Goddess herself. Strong, beautiful, takes a fine polish… perfect for inlay work, or a gift for a discerning patron."

The Corinthian vendor, whose face seemed carved from the same impassive wood he sold, barely glanced at the carvings. "Ebonwood. Yes." He consulted a small, slate tablet he produced from within his tunic, running a finger down a list. "Subject to the new Material Purity Assessment Fee, implemented this cycle. Five copper bits per item for inspection, payable in advance."

Mikkel stared, bewildered, his hopeful expression crumbling. "Inspection fee? For Ebonwood? Since when? I traded here just last moon-cycle, no fee then! What purity needs assessing? It's Ebonwood!"

"New regulation," the vendor stated flatly, tapping the slate as if it held irrefutable truth. "Ensures quality control and prevents the spread of wood-rot contaminants potentially prevalent in unregulated forest timber. Council directive. For the good of all trade relations."

"Wood-rot? In Ebonwood?" Mikkel scoffed, disbelief warring with rising anger in his voice. He picked up one of his carved owls, its surface smooth and dark. "That's impossible! It resists rot, resists fire, resists magic even! Ask anyone! Ask the druids! Ask the Goddess herself!"

"Regulations are regulations," the vendor repeated, his voice unchanging, his eyes flicking briefly, almost imperceptibly, towards the nearest guard, who shifted his weight slightly. "Pay the fee, or move your wares along. We must maintain standards for valley-wide commerce."

Mikkel looked from his carvings, each piece representing hours, sometimes days, of painstaking care over the long winter months, to the impassive vendor, to the silent, grey-clad guard whose presence felt like a physical weight.

Defeat settled heavily on his shoulders, slumping them. He couldn't afford the fee, not five coppers per item. Selling them now would mean not just no profit, but a significant loss.

Muttering curses under his breath, words questioning the parentage and sanity of distant councils and unseen gods, he began loading his unsold carvings back onto the cart, the earlier hope completely drained from his face, leaving it grey and tired.

It was into this atmosphere of chilled commerce, simmering resentment, and enforced, unnatural quietude that Roderick Sedley arrived, his mechanical spider-walker picking its way delicately through the muddy square, its eight articulated legs surprisingly quiet on the packed earth, moving with an arachnid grace that was both fascinating and slightly unsettling.

His usual flamboyant attire, a coat of vibrant peacock blue today, trimmed with intricate Kerkenberge silver thread that caught the weak sunlight,seemed almost offensively bright, a jarring splash of color against the subdued grey and brown tones favored by the Corinthian presence.

His face, however, beneath the brim of his wide, feathered hat, lacked its usual easy, booming cheer. His eyes, sharp and assessing beneath bushy grey brows that twitched slightly, took in the scene with quick, calculating glances—the half-empty Ebonheim stalls, the rigid, watchful guards, the frustrated, downcast faces of his countrymen, and the cool, almost smug efficiency of the Corinthian merchants conducting their regulated business.

He dismounted near Hemlock's stall, swinging down with surprising agility for a man of his years, and clapped the old trapper on the shoulder with a forced, booming heartiness that didn't quite ring true.

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"Hemlock, my good man! By the Goddess's grace, those look like the finest pelts I've seen this side of the peaks! Thick as winter itself! Ready to make a fortune today, eh? Enough silver to keep your hearth warm till spring thaw?"

Hemlock just grunted, the sound thick with bitterness, gesturing mutely with a jerk of his chin at the Corinthian merchant who still stood nearby, impassive as a stone marker.

"Fortune?" Hemlock spat the word out like spoiled meat. "Four coppers a pelt, he says. Four coppers! Barely enough to pay for the salt to cure 'em, let alone the sweat and risk freezing my arse off in the high passes for three moons!"

Roderick's smile tightened, the jovial mask slipping for just an instant, revealing the shrewd, calculating mind beneath. He turned to the Corinthian merchant, his voice suddenly smooth as oiled leather, deceptively mild.

"Four coppers, you say? An odd valuation indeed for prime winter marten, friend merchant. Especially this season, after the hard frost drove the game lower. Perhaps there's been a misunderstanding? A slight misreading of the market winds, easily rectified between colleagues?"

The merchant met Roderick's gaze evenly, his eyes flat, devoid of the usual spark of negotiation or even simple human curiosity. "No misunderstanding, Master Sedley. The Corinth Council sets the rates based on extensive analysis of resource availability and projected community need. It ensures fair distribution, prevents hoarding and harmful speculation."

The words were reasonable, the tone polite, almost soothing, yet they carried the unyielding weight of absolute, unquestionable authority.

"Ah, the Council," Roderick mused, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes twinkling, though the light seemed colder than usual.

He glanced subtly, almost imperceptibly, at the guards stationed nearby. "Wise and prudent, no doubt. Always thinking of the greater good. But surely even their meticulous projections allow for… negotiation? A small premium for exceptional quality, perhaps? A recognition of skill honed over a lifetime? Old Hemlock here traps cleaner, skins finer, than a Jixishan druid sweeps her hearth before a ritual."

"The rate is fixed," the merchant repeated, utterly unmoved by Roderick's charm, flattery, or Hemlock's simmering glare. "Quality is assumed within the grading parameters established by the Council. Four coppers."

The finality was absolute.

Roderick, never one to waste effort on an immovable object, shifted tactics smoothly, turning his attention to a nearby stall where Corinthian textiles—bolts of plain, sturdy grey and brown cloth, utilitarian and unadorned—were displayed with geometric, almost military precision.

"And these fine weaves?" he inquired of the vendor there, a woman whose expression seemed woven from the same drab threads as her wares. "Excellent quality, I see. Sturdy, practical. Exactly what I have need of for outfitting a new venture—a small outpost further along the Pathway. What price do you ask for such durable material?"

The textile vendor, a woman with eyes as grey and flat as her bolts of cloth, consulted her own slate, her finger tracing a line with slow deliberation. "Standard weave, grey, Council price is eight coppers the ell."

Roderick raised an eyebrow, letting a touch of theatrical surprise enter his voice. "Eight coppers? For simple roughspun? Why, just last season in Ebonheim market, similar quality – perhaps even a touch finer, woven by Odette's guild – fetched barely five! A steep increase, wouldn't you agree?"

"Our weave incorporates stabilizing runes approved by Lord Xellos himself," the woman stated, her gaze flicking briefly towards the guards before returning, a faint note of rote recitation, of programmed response, entering her otherwise monotonous voice. "Enhances durability, resists mildew, ensures uniformity. Worth the premium. Eight coppers."

Stabilizing runes? Approved by Xellos?

Roderick peered closer at the cloth, running a discerning finger over the texture. He saw faint markings woven into the fabric, yes, simple repeating patterns, but they looked more decorative than functional, certainly nothing complex enough to warrant such a significant price hike, nor bearing any recognizable arcane signature he could detect.

This wasn't market fluctuation; this wasn't even simple price gouging. This was manipulation, pure and simple. A deliberate, systematic skewing of trade—buying low from Ebonheim producers, selling high commodities from Corinth, all under the unassailable guise of Council regulations and Xellos's supposed divine 'blessings'.

He spent another hour moving through the trading post, his jovial facade firmly back in place, a mask honed by years of navigating treacherous deals and fickle markets.

But his mind worked furiously behind the mask, gathering data, connecting the dots. He spoke with weavers whose intricate patterns were dismissed as 'substandard', potters whose sturdy earthenware was deemed 'porous', metalworkers whose finely balanced tools were suddenly subject to 'material density tariffs'.

Ebonheim folk, one after another, told similar stories of suddenly depressed prices for their goods, or encountering new, inexplicable fees and regulations imposed seemingly overnight by Corinthian officials wielding slate tablets like shields.

He stopped by Elara's stall, admiring a bolt of wool dyed a deep, vibrant forest green, the color rich and true, smelling faintly of berries and moss.

"Still using those mountain berries and river mosses, Elara?" he asked, knowing the difficulty and skill involved in achieving such a shade consistently.

She nodded glumly, holding up the wool, the pride in her craft warring with frustration.

"Aye, Roderick, same as always, the old ways. But the Corinth vendor says the color's inconsistent," she emphasized the word with bitterness, "claims it might fade unevenly, offers half what it's worth. Half! For work that took me weeks!"

Conversely, goods from Corinth? Priced high, justified by vague claims of runic enhancement, superior materials blessed by Xellos, or adherence to meticulous Council standards. The same textile vendor who quoted him eight coppers for roughspun wouldn't budge, claiming Xellos himself stabilized the weave, making it superior to any Ebonheim cloth.

The pattern was undeniable. This wasn't simple competition, or even aggressive bargaining; it was a calculated economic squeeze, orchestrated with chilling efficiency, designed to bleed Ebonheim dry while enriching Corinth.

His mechanical spider carried him back towards Ebonheim along the Verdant Pathway, the rhythmic clicking of its eight legs on the packed earth a counterpoint to the troubled, angry churning of his thoughts.

The vibrant chaos of Ebonheim's city rose before him, smoke curling from hundreds of chimneys in a dozen different styles, shouts and laughter echoing from the distant training grounds, the air smelling richly, messily of life – woodsmoke, roasting meat, river mud, yeast from the bakery, and the sharp, unpredictable tang of Evelyne's latest arcane experiment likely gone slightly, spectacularly awry.

The contrast with the sterile, controlled atmosphere of the trading post under Corinth's shadow was stark, and deeply unsettling.

He didn't head for his own comfortable rooms above the now-thriving merchant's exchange he'd established near the plaza, a place filled with ledgers, maps, and the satisfying clutter of commerce. Instead, he directed the spider straight towards the cluster of sturdy, unassuming buildings near the Feast Hall that served as the town council's meeting chambers and Engin Meric's cluttered, parchment-strewn office.

He needed to report this immediately.

This wasn't just about lost profits or unfair trade practices; it was about control, about Xellos subtly testing the waters, pushing boundaries, seeing how far he could extend his influence without provoking a direct confrontation. It was the first shadow cast by the neighboring town, a shadow that threatened to lengthen and darken, potentially choking the life out of Ebonheim's hard-won prosperity if left unchecked.

He found Engin poring over crop yield reports and new settlement requests, the lines of worry already etched deeper around the old leader's eyes than they had been just months before, the weight of governing a burgeoning city visible in the slump of his shoulders.

"Engin," Roderick began without preamble, shedding his jovial mask the moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, his voice low and urgent. "We have a problem brewing at Three-Rivers. A significant one. More than just market squabbles."

Engin looked up, his green eyes sharp, instantly sensing the gravity in Roderick's tone, setting aside his parchments. "Corinth?"

The single word was heavy with unspoken apprehension.

"Aye, Corinth," Roderick confirmed, sinking wearily into a chair opposite Engin's cluttered desk, the scent of old paper and drying ink filling the small room. "Or more accurately, Xellos. He's playing games with the trade, Engin. Squeezing our people, inflating his own prices, all under the guise of 'Council regulations' and 'divine guidance'. I saw it myself. Hemlock, old Hemlock, offered four coppers for prime winter marten pelts! Mikkel, the carver, asked to pay an exorbitant inspection fee for Ebonwood, citing nonexistent 'contaminants'! It's systematic, Engin. It's targeted."

Engin listened intently, his fingers drumming a slow, steady, thoughtful rhythm on the worn wood of the desk, his gaze fixed on Roderick's face. "Targeted how? What's the pattern?"

"Prices for goods coming from Ebonheim are being artificially, drastically depressed," Roderick explained, leaning forward, his voice dropping lower, fierce with conviction. "They cite market saturation, minor quality deviations, new purity standards—anything plausible on the surface to justify paying pennies on the silver.

"But goods from Corinth? Priced high, sometimes double or triple what they're worth, justified by flimsy claims of runic enhancement only visible to their 'experts' or vague assertions of being blessed by Xellos himself. That textile woman wanted eight coppers for roughspun that wouldn't fetch three in Kerkenberge, claiming Xellos personally stabilized the weave! It's a classic economic squeeze, Engin, designed to drain value directly from our producers and funnel it towards Corinth, enriching them at our expense."

"And the guards?" Engin asked quietly, his fingers stilling on the desk.

"Posted everywhere. Not overtly threatening, mind you, no drawn steel. But… present. Watching. Their very stillness is an enforcement. Enforcing these new 'rules' without question, without blinking. Their presence chills the whole exchange, makes our folk hesitant to even argue too loudly. Fewer of our traders were even there today – word must be spreading through the market grapevine already."

Roderick shook his head, his expression grim. "This isn't just business competition, Engin. This feels political. Calculated. Xellos is testing our borders, economically speaking, seeing how much pressure we'll tolerate before pushing back."

Engin nodded slowly, his gaze distant, looking past Roderick towards the window, towards the bustling city outside. "I feared something like this might begin sooner or later. Not as openly as this, though. I would have expected more subtlety, a slower increase of pressure. It's surprising he'd risk the tension so early in our trade relationship." He looked back at Roderick, his eyes hard now. "What do you propose?"

"We need to respond formally, immediately," Roderick stated firmly, meeting Engin's gaze. "A diplomatic query dispatched to the Corinth Council—though we both know who truly pulls the strings behind their pronouncements. We request clarification on these new regulations, citing specific examples like Hemlock's pelts and Mikkel's carvings. We express concern about the clear, detrimental impact on fair trade along a shared, vital route."

He tapped the desk for emphasis. "We document everything, meticulously. We build our case, present it clearly, leave no room for misinterpretation." He paused, his voice dropping again. "We need to know, Engin. We need to know if this is a misunderstanding, a temporary bureaucratic overreach by overzealous officials… or the first deliberate move in a larger, colder game."

Engin stood, walking slowly to the window and looking out over the bustling, vibrant city he had helped build from nothing but desperation and shared hope.

He watched a group of Aslankoyash children chase a Hrafnsteinn dog through the plaza, their laughter echoing off the stone.

"Prepare the message, Roderick," he said finally, his voice quiet but holding the unyielding strength of old Ebonwood, the resilience of the valley itself. "Polite, formal, but firm. Leave no doubt about our concerns, or our resolve. We will inquire. And," his gaze sharpened as he turned back from the window, "we will watch."

His voice was quiet, but held the unyielding strength of old Ebonwood. "We will watch very, very closely."

The shadow from the east had touched their borders.

The question now was how far it would reach, and what darkness it carried within it.

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