The quiet hum of Ripple was shattered that morning by the sound of wheels, hooves, and voices. From our little shop perched on the edge of the main road, we could see dust clouds rising in the distance, shimmering like a heat mirage in the sunlight. Then came the banners — silver hawks embroidered on deep blue cloth, fluttering proudly in the wind. The Silverhawk Merchant Caravan had arrived.
"By the gods," Joey whistled, shading his eyes with one hand. "That's not a caravan. That's an army with shopping bags."
Grandpa Max leaned heavily on his cane, his sharp old eyes narrowing as he surveyed the line of wagons stretching down the road. "Bah. In my day, caravans carried a dozen carts, maybe twenty if they were ambitious. This lot brought half of Santilmo City with them."
I couldn't help but grin. "Well, more goods means more opportunities. And probably better prices."
"Or worse," Grandpa muttered, but there was no hiding the glimmer of excitement in his gaze. His cane tapped once against the ground, a betraying rhythm that told me he was just as eager as we were.
By the time we made our way into town, Ripple had transformed. Colorful tents had sprung up like mushrooms after a rain, their bright fabrics catching the breeze. Stalls overflowed with goods — exotic silks that shimmered like spilled moonlight, shining trinkets that glittered even in the shade, stacks of dried fish, and baskets of herbs that smelled both sweet and strange. Music floated through the air, quick and lively, as performers strummed odd-looking instruments with strings that gleamed like silver thread. The whole town pulsed with energy, like someone had poured festival spirit into its veins.
Joey darted from stall to stall, his red eyes alight like a kid in a candy shop. "Alden, look at this! Dried flamefruit, straight from the Ashen Coast! Grandpa, check out that crossbow, it folds in half! Who makes a folding crossbow?!"
"Idiots," Grandpa replied flatly, though I caught him eyeing the weapon with a little too much interest.
Meanwhile, I was already running numbers in my head. The caravan meant trade, and trade meant margins. Prices were higher than Ripple's usual fare, but the quality... oh, the quality was undeniable. Stacks of magic crystals glowed faintly under silk covers. Rare ores gleamed in wooden crates, polished to perfection. One merchant even had cages of small, colorful creatures chirping in strange, almost melodic patterns.
Joey elbowed me as we passed. "Think we can sell those singing lizards? Put them in the shop, maybe attract customers?"
"Until they sing all night and drive us insane," I deadpanned.
He grinned, snapping his fingers like he'd just closed a deal. "Fair point. Shame though. They'd be great for scaring off boring people."
We wandered deeper into the bustle, the streets packed shoulder to shoulder. A juggler tossed knives in dizzying arcs, their blades flashing sunlight into the cheering crowd. A troupe of dancers spun with scarves that shimmered like liquid fire, twisting and curling as if the flames obeyed them. Somewhere nearby, the smell of roasted meat drifted thick and savory, and Joey's stomach growled loud enough that passersby chuckled.
"I swear," he groaned dramatically, clutching his stomach, "if I don't eat a skewer of whatever that is in the next two minutes, I'll wither away and die."
Grandpa arched an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."
Joey scowled, then spotted a food stall. "Come on, my treat."
We ended up under the shade of a tall oak, chewing on skewers of spiced boar meat dripping with juice. The spice burned just enough to make our eyes water, but it only made Joey grin wider as he licked his fingers clean. For a while, we just let the noise and color wash over us... the laughter, the warmth, the strange sense of community a caravan brought. It was easy to forget how small Ripple usually felt.
But the Silverhawk merchants weren't just entertainers or cooks. Beyond the bright colors and delicious smells lay the real heart of the caravan: business. Stalls glittered with weapons, enchanted trinkets, rare scrolls, and bottled potions glowing faintly in the sunlight. Traders barked prices, bartered loudly, sometimes nearly came to blows, only to laugh and clap hands after a deal was struck.
"This is where deals are made," Grandpa said softly, his voice carrying a weight I didn't miss. "And where fortunes are lost. Keep your eyes sharp, boys."
I nodded, scanning the stalls. Something in his tone sent a little shiver down my spine. Like he wasn't just speaking from wisdom..., but memory.
Joey, of course, just licked the skewer stick clean and grinned. "Relax, old man. We're not here to get swindled. We're here to get rich."
We spent hours browsing, buying small supplies for the shop: rare herbs we couldn't normally get in Ripple, lengths of good quality fabric, and a few low-tier crystals I knew we could turn a profit on. Joey handled most of the haggling, flashing that cocky grin of his and leaning on his street instincts. To my surprise, he actually shaved down prices more often than not.
"See?" he crowed after talking a jeweler down by nearly half. "Told you. Street smarts beat your spreadsheets any day."
"Don't get cocky," I muttered, though I couldn't stop myself from smiling.
It was Grandpa, though, who kept pulling us back when we got too distracted. He had a way of tapping his cane on the ground that made us straighten like misbehaving schoolboys. "Buy what we need, not what tickles your fancy. A home is built on discipline, not glitter."
"Discipline's boring," Joey muttered under his breath.
Grandpa's cane whacked his shin.
"Ow! Fine, fine, I get it."
As the sun began to dip lower, the caravan lights brightened. Lanterns strung between wagons glowed in hues of amber and gold, while magical globes floated above the tents like miniature suns. The music grew louder, richer, and the performances wilder — fire-breathers spitting streams of light, acrobats twisting through the air like falling stars. The whole world felt intoxicating, swept up in color and sound.
But as we passed one particular row of wagons, the mood shifted. A crowd pressed tightly around a caged wagon at the far end, murmuring with a different kind of excitement. The laughter and cheer dimmed, replaced by a quieter, sharper energy that prickled the air.
"Slaves," Grandpa said grimly, his voice low.
Joey and I both froze. I'd heard of slave markets, of course, but hearing about them and seeing them were worlds apart. Behind the bars, silhouettes shifted — men, women, children. Their eyes caught the lantern light in haunting flashes. And the crowd… their faces gleamed with greed, their gazes like cold knives cutting through flesh and dignity alike.
My stomach twisted. Joey's jaw clenched, his playful grin gone. Grandpa's face was unreadable, but his knuckles whitened slightly on his cane.
"Don't stare," he warned quietly. "Not yet. Just keep walking."
We obeyed, though my neck strained with the weight of everything I wanted... needed... to look at. For the first time all day, the vibrant colors of the caravan felt muted, the music hollow, the food sitting heavy in my stomach.
The Silverhawk Caravan was more than food and fun. It was a reminder: for every wonder in the world, there was an ugliness lurking behind it.
And somehow, I knew this caravan would change everything for us.