Stonehorn Crossing was a furnace that day. The marketplace below shimmered in the heat, vendors shouting themselves hoarse, carts rattling, and children darting between stalls. Smoked meats, wool bolts, and sacks of grain filled the air with heavy smells.
On the third floor of a wide, rustic stone building that overlooked it all, a Ramari merchant lord raged. His office was large, furnished with carved chairs, thick rugs, and a wide desk polished to a shine. Brass candlesticks glinted on the shelves. A portrait of himself, plump and smug in a velvet vest, hung crooked on the wall.
The same man was sweating through that same vest, his belly straining against the buttons as he tore through ledgers with greasy fingers. His gold bangles clinked loudly as he hurled one book after another onto the floor.
