Isgram walked with slow, heavy steps through Davra's merchant district, and for once, no one called out to him.
The street was quieter than it should've been for midday. Stalls stood half-stocked, their canopies sagging in the sun. A butcher leaned on his block, staring blankly into space. A cloth merchant stood beside bolts of unsold linen, muttering curses under her breath. There was no laughter, no barter, no children playing near the fountains. Just tension. Just hunger.
He saw it in their eyes—the flickers of desperation behind forced smiles, behind the polite nods given to a warrior who might be their last line of defense.
Then he saw the boy.
No more than ten, ribs sharp under a threadbare tunic, darting past crates and baskets with a stolen apple clutched in both hands. The fruit seller shouted and gave half a chase before stopping. Not worth it. Not today.
Isgram didn't intervene. He could've. A simple grab, a bit of fear, a warning. But the child was fast, and more than that, he was starving. So were too many others. The thief would be back tomorrow, or someone else in his place.
He turned and continued toward the square where the caravan had unloaded.
The scent of cured meat and stale grain hung in the air like a challenge. Alona sat at a makeshift table in the shade of a leaning wall, surrounded by crates, sacks, and a few of the remaining boys from the convoy. Her parchment scroll was slick with markings.
A single copper scale sat beside her, counterweights lined up with precision.
She didn't look up when he approached.
"Morning," he said.
Alona glanced up with a faint grin, ink-stained fingers still working the scroll.
"Look who finally decided to check in on the real heroes."
"Just needed a walk," he muttered.
She leaned back on her stool, stretching her arms and wincing at a pop in her shoulder. "Well, you missed the fun. Some of the sacks tore open when we unloaded—Flin ended up covered with onions. I sent him home to shower on the spot, but we've counted and weighed nearly everything."
Isgram nodded, glancing over the goods. The square was still busy with boys dragging sacks into storage, checking inventories, and swatting at flies. It was all there. The smoked meat from the hunts Fang and his bunnies led.
The root vegetables they'd dug with their own hands.
Dried herbs, beans, and onions braided in thick ropes.
Their harvest.
Fang's cursed soil.
Gaia's Earth magic.
His own arms splitting stumps and turning fields.
All of it now stacked in front of him like proof that the Haven could provide.
Alona saw the look on his face and softened. "It's not just food. It's hope, Isgram. They've been watching us unload since dawn. Nobody spat. Nobody jeered. They're hungry, and they're waiting. Just think of the good you did today for your reputation."
Isgram looked at the skies and put his hand on his nape, rubbing it awkwardly,
"I just hope it will feed the kids."
Alona raised her eyebrow, but didn't comment. Instead, a smile formed on her face.
"So, what's the final count?" He asked with a shyness that just didn't match the burly man.
She held up the parchment. "Transport costs, the boys' pay, a new wheel for that cursed back cart… all tallied up."
Then she said it.
"Two thousand, four hundred silver."
Isgram stared at her.
"How much?!"
Alona didn't flinch. "Two-four-oh-oh."
Isgram knew they were desperate, but to pay so much for food?
'Are the prices of food this high nowadays?"
"You're serious."
She held up the parchment again. "Itemized. Dried meats, root vegetables, herbs, and beans. Even discounted the onions after Flin dropped that sack. Trust me, it's fair. Your vegetables are also higher quality than we are used to, but this is not a factor for this kind of sale, as we're buying a very large amount of food."
He squinted at the numbers. "Fair doesn't mean they'll pay it."
Alona leaned back on the stool, twirling the quill in her fingers. "They're desperate. If they want to keep their kids alive through the next moon, they'll find the coin."
"Or they'll haggle it down and ask for mercy." Said isgram, skeptical of the motivation to pay them.
Her voice softened. "We might not pay it all at once.
But we'll find a way. Trade goods. Labor. Whatever it takes. You brought food when no one else would, Isgram. The council knows that. They'll pay. Just… give us time."
He looked past her, at the boys hauling sacks into storage, at the crates stacked with what had once been wilderness—now food.
"Fang won't stand by and let us starve families. I won't take your money like that, so let's lower the price to something manageable."
Alona looked at him with a dumbfounded look, "Isgram, Davra can pay for it's own food. Do not give us charity."
"This is not charity to Davra. This is for the children. Please, take around half of it and dedicate it to the children. Take it out of our bill."
Her mouth opened, and she lost her words for a moment. "Isgram, Davra can pay for its food. We're not beggars."
"This isn't charity for Davra," he said firmly. "It's for the kids. I saw one steal an apple this morning. He couldn't've weighed more than a sack of onions."
Alona stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the scroll.
He continued. "Tell the council it's a gift. Not a bargain. Let them save face if they need to. But make sure the food gets to the children."
Silence.
Then she nodded, slowly.
"I'll make it happen."
He gave her a tired smile. "I know you will."
And without another word, he turned toward the industrial sector of the village.
Isgram left the square behind, boots heavy with dust and thought. The streets grew narrower as he moved east, stone giving way to scorched earth.
Hammers rang in the distance, their rhythm steady, almost meditative, until the wind shifted and brought with it the acrid scent of iron and ash
He pushed through the smiths' gate, nodding at the wide-eyed apprentice who stood frozen mid-sweep. Past rows of anvils and coal pits, past the clang of folding steel and the groan of bellows, until he spotted a familiar figure: Garrick, his old mentor, sleeves rolled to the elbow, chest like a furnace, arms blackened with ash.
"Still hammering like the world owes you coin," Isgram said.
Garrick didn't look up. "Didn't stop me hammering your head when you owed me coin."
Isgram smirked. "Still didn't pay, you old fart."
Garrick slammed his hammer down one last time and turned. "You're back. I guess you heard the news about the fields. This is going to be one harsh winter."
The two locked eyes, "Walk with me," Isgram said.
Garrick glanced at the unfinished blade on his anvil, then wiped his hands and followed without a word. They moved past the younger smiths, past piles of horseshoes and scythe heads, until they reached a quieter alley near the coal reserves.
"I need answers," Isgram said.
"You always do."
"The curse on the fields," he continued. "The wheat's yellowed and hollow. The soil is dry even after rain. No worms. No roots. Just rot."
Garrick's jaw tightened. "I've heard the rumors. It's been a while since we encountered them, but this is rumored to be impactful. According to the farmers, almost half of the harvest is gone."
"Not rumors," Isgram said. "I've gone to check it out. No mana reading whatsoever."
Garrick was silent for a long moment. Then: "You think it's sabotage?"
"I think it's old. The best bet across the board is that the fields were cursed by the demons before they perished, and that it is acting up now for some reason. Any idea why?"
Garrick rubbed his grey short beard, eyes narrowing as he leaned against the blackened fire-stained wall.
"Curses like that don't just wake up on their own," he muttered. "Not after 10 years. Unless something called them."
"Like what?" Isgram asked.
"It can be old blood, as we all know the demons dealt in the dark arts," Garrick said, and then took a sigh.
"And it can be new magic. A strong enough surge from the right source could rattle mana left buried in the dirt. That, or the gods are truly pissed at us this time."
Isgram crossed his arms. "You think it's my new companions? That we are the reason it is back?"
Garrick shook his head. "Not accusing. But you're playing with powers most folks stopped trusting centuries ago. Earth doesn't forget. Especially not when it bleeds."
They stood in silence, the wind carrying the faint clang of hammers from deeper inside the forge quarter. Then Garrick pushed off the wall, his gaze heavy.
"If you want real answers, you'll need to research it. I heard from the boys your haven has delivered a large amount of food, but it is only a band-aid.
We will need someone who specializes in curses to save this village, or we will start bleeding money. One with experience, and from what I remember, the empire harbors only a select few of those..."
Isgram nodded. "I was thinking of letting Fang have a try at it."
Garrick scratched his chin, leaving a fresh streak of charcoal across his jaw."That necromancer friend of yours? Could work. Folk might flinch, but dead fields for dead magic—it fits."
Isgram snorted. "You make it sound poetic."
"I'd rather it be practical. If Fang can revive your land, he might just convince the land to breathe again." Garrick's lips curled into a half-smile. "Though, if he starts talking to worms, I'm walking."
Isgram allowed himself a grin. "I'll keep him away from your compost heap."
A voice called from the forge yard—a boy with more muscles than sense, waving a set of warped tongs. Garrick sighed.
"Back to it. You, though—if you're serious about saving this village, talk to the old quartermaster, Eland. He used to keep records of cursed sites. Might know more than he lets on."
Isgram nodded. "Thanks, Garrick. Drinks on me next time."
"That's a dangerous promise, lad. Make sure we live to claim it."