As soon as our caravan's wheels hit the cobblestones of Kavrenn's Crossing, I realized that we'd crossed into a whole new economic system.
Perched in comfort in my cushioned bassinet—that, by the way, was more heavily warded than the treasuries of some royalty—I had the ideal position for market surveillance. The magic whispered softly, the magical equivalent of a bodyguard discreetly clearing his throat to deter potential troublemakers.
At first glance, I appeared to be a slack-jawed, slobbering baby basking in the sounds and hues. Underneath that appearance, I was a stealth industrial observer taking a methodical census of trade routes, supply chains, and logistical productivity.
[🐧 ACTIVATING "BABY'S FIRST HOSTILE MARKET TAKEOVER" PROTOCOL. RECORDED INVENTORY MOVEMENT, MERCHANT PROFIT MARGINS, AND ROLLER SKATING UNDERSIZED REGULATIONS.]
The marketplace itself teemed with some sort of melodic mayhem that could only be accomplished when all of the participants at once were attempting to make money and be heard above the rest.
Vendors yelled in dialects so thick that they needed translating spells, peddling items that walked the fine line between miracle and hoax. One vendor sold charmed wool that shifted color with the seasons—ideal for the finicky. Another smoked fish that was claimed to sing lullabies to preserve them, which elicited several questions of morality I wasn't quite prepared to tackle before my nap.
Kids ran between stands, leaving behind kites in the form of dragons that periodically emitted sparks. Three goats—goats.—wore garlands of flowers and were doing something that I could only call synchronized, economy-be-damned choreography in front of the dairy booth. To my left, somewhere, a street musician was powerfully warbling about cabbage prices.
[🐧 OBSERVATION: THIS IS A PUBLIC WHERE CROP MARKETING HAS GONE INTERACTIVE THEATER. INVESTOR APPEAL: VERY HIGH. SANITY LEVEL: IN QUESTION.]
But aside from the novelty trinkets and street shows, the true gems hid in the infrastructure.
Anvils clanged with magically enhanced precision at the blacksmith's corner. Rope systems with sophisticated pulley mechanisms lifted crates with an air of beauty that implied someone actually knew about leverage. Kilns billowed continuous clouds of smoke, each puff a perfectly controlled output for uniform firing temperatures.
Even better—there were bundles of copper wire piled alongside clay bricks and iron bars. Copper. Wire. Somebody here was experimenting with electrical concepts in an economy that predated the industrial revolution. My toes curled up with glee.
[🐧 TECHNOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT: THIS MARKET IS A HYPOTHETICAL 19TH-CENTURY INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION THAT GOT DRUNK AND MARRIED MAGIC. RECOMM
I almost let my enthusiasm slip. Almost. But recalling that I was after all a helpless three-month-old, I contained myself to a well-placed coo and some mild wiggling of fingers.
[🐧 CREATOR, DO YOU WANT ME TO START WORKING ON A THOROUGH INFRASTRUCTURE UPGRADE PLAN? APPROXIMATE TIME FOR IMPLEMENTATION: WHEN YOU CAN COOK COMPLETE SENTENCES WITHOUT SPITTING.]
Yes. Sneakily. No showing my hand—or rather, my fat little baby fist—too early.
As the caravan traveled deeper into the square, I began to catch bits of more. disturbing conversations.
Near a spice stand, two merchants huddled over jars of scarlet powder.
"…Guild's issued new limits on deep digging," one grumbled, tracing a rune-etched pendant that glowed softly. "No more than fifty feet deep without an authorized mage nearby.
The other laughed. "Fifty feet? My grandfather's copper mine stretches three hundred. Now you're telling me I have to bring some robe-clad spell-caster into every tunnel?"
"Since Greystone?" The first merchant's voice sank lower. "Twelve miners descended. Eight returned. Those eight won't say a word about it except to mutter about 'walls having eyes' and 'voices in the stone.'
[🐧 ALERT: SUBTERRANEAN ANOMALY REPORT CONFIRMS PREVIOUS GUARD WHISPERS. CROSS-REFERENCE: 72% CHANCE OF TIE-IN WITH CURRENT DUNGEON BREAK RUMORS.]
Eyes on the walls? Voices out of stone? That wasn't rock geology—that was foreshadowing with fangs.
We rolled by a forge where an apprentice worked the bellows, muttering in hushed tones to his master.
"…same dream every night," said the boy. "Black stone corridors. Painful symbols. Something calling from below."
The blacksmith's jaw clenched. "Shut up. Guild finds out you're spreading fear, they'll shut you down quicker than you can heat iron."
"But what if it's real?"
[🐧 PSYCHOLOGICAL CONTAGION INDICATOR DETECTED. COMMON IN AREAS WITH MAGICAL CONTAMINATION, PSYCHIC LEAKS, OR, YOU KNOW, EVIL THINGS WITH TEETH.]
I was starting to notice a pattern—and it wasn't reassuring. If whole mining towns were describing the same hellscapes. something was percolating up.
The next hint came from a group of three old women chatting over bolts of cloth. Their conversation was vibrant at first—grain prices, whose nephew had eloped with a potter's daughter—but then one of them whispered.
"…and that's why my cousin's husband won't go near the south tunnels anymore. Says the stone there feels warm. Like a fever."
"Stone doesn't get fevers," one said dismissively.
"You didn't see his face. He came back… wrong. Eyes always darting, like he's listening to something only he can hear."
[🐧 CREATOR, IF THIS WERE A CHILDREN'S STORY, THIS IS WHERE THE ILLUSTRATOR WOULD DRAW AN OMINOUS SHADOW JUST OFF-PANEL.]
The further into the market we penetrated, the more brittle the lively disorder seemed… There was smiling, laughing, haggling—but their eyes constantly darted toward the distant hills where the mining district was. Even the goats' choreography was uncomfortable, as if they, too, wanted to complete business before dark.
We once pulled over so Lady Darsha could inspect an order of unique glassware. From where I was standing, I overheard a guard muttering to another guard by the fountain.
"…second collapse this week," one growled. "And it's not simply rockfall—stone appeared… chewed."
[🐧 NOTE: "CHEWED" IS NOT A TERM THAT SHOULD BE USED ABOUT GEOLOGICAL MATERIALS. UNLESS YOUR ROCKS HAVE GROWN AN APPETITE. IN WHICH CASE, LEAVE.]
I filed that away in the mental folder labeled: Things That Will Be a Problem Later.
By the time the caravan reached the far end of the square, I'd overheard enough to connect several threads. Deep excavation restrictions. Miners returning altered—or not at all. Shared nightmares. Rumors of something beneath the earth that could gnaw through stone.
[🐧 CREATOR, SUGGEST STRATEGIC LEAP NOW: WE NEED MORE INFORMATION ON THESE "DUNGEON BREAKS" BEFORE THEY MAKE THE JUMP FROM ANECDOTE TO AFTER-ACTION REPORT.]
I nodded the slightest my baby neck could. It was time to cease thinking of this as pretty local rumour. Whatever was cooking down below wasn't going to be cooking there forever.
And from the manner in which individuals' voices lowered, in which their gazes shunned certain areas, I suspected they already knew about it