The gates of Harrowfield stood taller than Selira remembered, though perhaps it was only the fresh row of sharpened stakes that made them seem so. A pair of tired-looking guards inspected every wagon with the vigilance of men ordered to watch for spies, though their true interest lingered more on the coins changing hands.
"Entry tax," one guard grunted, palm outstretched. His armor had seen better days; dents and rust rivaled Bram's plating.
Selira sighed, already fishing out the copper. "Three years ago, you could walk in free so long as you smiled at the gate captain. Now you'd think a smile costs silver."
The guard smirked, pocketing the coins. Bram loomed behind her cart, his creaking frame drawing a suspicious glance. "That thing yours?"
"He's with me," Selira said simply. The guard hesitated, then waved them through.
Inside, the noise of Harrowfield swallowed her. Hawkers cried out their wares, colorful awnings fluttered overhead, and the smell of fresh bread mingled with woodsmoke and sweat. Children darted through crowds chasing each other, only to be shooed away by tired mothers. On the surface, it was life as usual.
But Selira's practiced merchant's eye caught the cracks. A fishmonger's stall stood half-empty though the rivers still ran. Grain sacks bore doubled prices, chalked hastily over older numbers. And everywhere, soldiers in dull gray cloaks moved in twos, buying provisions with stamped tokens instead of coin.
"Busy as ever," Selira murmured, guiding her cart into the fray. "And twice as cutthroat."
Bram clanked along beside her, his large arms steadying the cart whenever someone bumped it. Children gawked openly, one daring to wave until his mother yanked him away.
Selira smiled faintly. For all his rust and creaks, Bram still had presence. That presence had scared off bandits; perhaps it would charm buyers too.
She steered the cart toward a familiar corner of the square, where a stout woman with a scarf tied over her hair was berating a pair of apprentices.
"Marna!" Selira called.
The older woman turned, eyes widening. "By the Saints, if it isn't little Selira! Thought you'd vanished with the last trade caravan!"
Selira hopped down lightly, giving the woman a warm embrace. "Not vanished. Just stubbornly alive. You've held your corner well."
"Alive's a rare luxury these days." Marna's tone carried humor, but her eyes flicked toward the soldiers weighing out bread at her stall. "The war bleeds us dry. Every month it's new taxes, new quotas. I sell more to the army than to folk who actually eat at their own tables."
Selira folded her arms. "Which means prices rise, and customers look to merchants like me for alternatives."
Marna gave her a sly smile. "Still got that merchant tongue, I see. Be careful. That tongue might buy you coin, but it can also buy you trouble if the wrong ears hear it."
Selira only shrugged, though the warning lingered. She glanced around the market again. The colors, the noise, the bustle—all of it alive, yet just beneath it, she felt the war's weight. People hurried not for joy but necessity. And soldiers' boots thudded heavier than the merchants' songs.
For a merchant, opportunity lay in the cracks. But so did danger.
Selira brushed a strand of hair from her face, glanced at Bram, and smiled. "Come on, big guy. Let's see if Harrowfield is still worth trading in."
Bram's gears whirred, a low metallic grunt escaping his chestplate as if in reply.
Somewhere deeper in the square, an argument rose—loud voices, angry, and close to boiling over. Selira's smile thinned. Harrowfield was bustling, yes. But it was also ready to burst.