In the hallway, Lysandra and Jake were standing ready with some of the children who were a bit sleepy.
"Jake," Eamond said, "secure the wagon at the stables. We leave in half an hour. No spills." He pressed two copper coins into the boy's palm. "Bribes for speed."
Jake slipped away. Eamond turned to Syd. "Coal merchant paid?"
"His ledger's blank," Syd replied.
"Good. Lysandra—wake them."
A spark flared in Lysandra's palm. The toddlers blinked awake, bleary-eyed but obediently gathering their jars. Eamond slipped on his cloak and followed them into the pre-dawn streets.
A half-hour later, Eamond and his ragtag crew arrived at Alcasa's sprawling market. Dawn stained the cobbled lanes pale pink, and vendors hawked rotten grapes, bruised pears, and stale bread for twice their worth. Everywhere he looked, inefficiency cried aloud.
He pointed to a stand where a merchant berated a beggar.
Under Eamond's direction, the older children unloaded the first jars. Each bore the charred wooden label Lysandra had burned the night before: PHOENIX BRAND PRESERVES – LIMITED DAWN EDITION. He surveyed the crowd—commoners in work garbs, merchants in woolen cloaks, and the always-watchful city guards.
He took a jar in hand, tapped its lid, and cleared his throat. "Hear me, friends! Beneath your feet stands a mountain of despair. But here—" he lifted the jar high, "—a single spoonful of phoenix-blessed preserves brings vigor to the bones, clarity to the mind, and life to the spirit!"
The toddlers began to weep on cue, faces streaked with dirt. The nobles recoiled in sympathy. Eamond leaned in, tone softer: "For only 10 copper, claim this elixir of renewal. Limited dawn edition—once the sun climbs, the magic fades."
A pale merchant's wife clutched her diamonds. "Truly?" she whispered.
"Truly," Eamond said, bowing. "Proprietary blend—peaches, honey, cinnamon, and a spark of the flame that birthed the Sun itself." He winked, and she dropped a purse jingling with coppers into his satchel.
Within the hour, they sold fifteen jars. Lysandra hovered in the shadows, silent but vigilant, flames dancing at her fingertips in case a guard sniffed out a scam.
By midday, a rival preserves vendor with lacquered jars and gilded labels set up two stalls down. His sign read "Aurora Exotics – Taste the Dawn", and he sneered at Eamond when their eyes met across the square.
The young vendor launched into a rehearsed oration: "From the royal orchards to your table—each jar sealed at first light, hand-pressed by the finest pearlickers in the realm!" He tapped a brass phoenix on his jar lids, voice rich with entitlement. Curious nobles and well-heeled merchants drifted toward his stall, their skepticism masked by polite interest.
Eamond watched the crowd's shift: the blackened jars now seemed humble beside Aurora's polished display. A baker tugged at his flour-stained sleeve, glancing from Phoenix Brand to the gilded stall. A city guard paused, eyeing Eamond's orphans warily. The edge of doubt crept through his carefully built momentum.
His jaw clenched. He surveyed every variable—crowd size, guard patrol, competitor's confidence—and devised an immediate counterstrike. "Lysandra," he hissed under his breath, "disrupt them, minimal smoke."
Lysandra slipped behind Aurora's stall and exhaled a thin swirl of flame across the ground. A wisp of smoke curled between jars; the vendor coughed, fans scattering as eyes watered. His carefully arranged fruits twitched, and patrons backed away.
Eamond seized the moment. He raised his voice above the commotion: "Behold the real dawn!" With a flourish, he popped open one of his preserves. Lysandra—hidden at the edge of the crowd—flicked a single spark into the jar. The contents ignited in an ethereal amber glow, casting warm light over anxious faces.
Eyes widened as the glow pulsed. A noblewoman clutched her pearls, heart aflutter. The rival vendor sputtered, desperately fanning smoke from his wares, but the spectacle was done. In the ensuing hush, Eamond's voice dropped to a persuasive murmur: "One jar, ten copper—renewal guaranteed."
Hands flew coins into his hat; within heartbeats, five more jars were gone, purchased not for their humble container but for the promise of dawn's miracle. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The rival vendor spluttered indignantly, but Eamond had already closed the sale on five more jars. And just a few hours it sold out.
Late afternoon found Eamond back in the orphanage's cramped study. The toddlers napped on straw mats; Lysandra salted away the day's count in a battered chest. He dumped the day's takings onto the desk: 2 gold, 15 copper.
He opened his ledger—pages frayed—and recorded:
Phoenix Preserves: +2 G, +15 C
Coal Merchant Payment: –2 G
Medicine: –1 G, –5 C
Net Today: –1 C (overhead)
Eamond than reach out to a different sack filled with coins he got from looting the crimson fang from last time. He was going to use these coins as an experiment for his magic. Money magic, he was hoping this coin would be enough to perform just the basics.
With the children occupied, Eamond slipped into the overgrown courtyard, where cracked stones bore moss and spilled water from a broken fountain. Eamond then asked the system.
" System, how do I use magic?"
" Just input it, the author is having a massive headache if I choose the first one."
"What?"
Moments later, a surge of information flooded Eamond's mind. He staggered slightly, the sudden influx overwhelming. Images, symbols, and incantations danced before his inner eye, settling into a coherent understanding of the magical arts.
He now comprehended the fundamentals: magic was not free. Each spell demanded a price, often in the form of mana, but in his case, the currency was literal. Coins acted as conduits, their value determining the potency and duration of a spell.
Eamond retrieved a copper coin from the sack, its surface gleaming under the dappled sunlight. He focused his intent, channeling his newfound knowledge.
"Illuminate," he whispered.
The coin vibrated gently, emitting a soft glow that illuminated the courtyard. The light persisted for a minute before fading, the coin now dull and lifeless.
He examined it, noting the slight discoloration. The magic had consumed a portion of its essence, rendering it mundane. This was the cost: the sacrifice of value for power.
Determined to delve deeper, Eamond selected a silver coin. He envisioned a protective barrier, a shield against potential threats.
"Shield," he intoned.
A translucent dome enveloped him. He pressed against it, feeling the resistance. The barrier held firm for five minutes before dissipating.
" System, do I need to have coins on hand to cast magic?"
" Is that so? Let's try it."
Eamond than try to cast a magic without taking a coin. He closed his eyes, focusing his intent. He envisioned a protective barrier, similar to the one he had conjured earlier.
"Shield," he intoned.
A translucent dome enveloped him, shimmering with golden hues. He pressed against it, feeling the familiar resistance. After five minutes, the barrier dissipated.
A soft chime echoed in his mind, followed by the system's notification:
Eamond opened his eyes, a mix of awe and apprehension washing over him. The convenience of casting spells without physically handling coins was undeniable, but the automatic deductions added a new layer of responsibility.
He practiced in the courtyard: gusting winds to clear debris, warming flames to heat water for medicine, a luminous sphere for a few more hours. By the time he finished, the sky was already dark. So he comes in and goes to the kitchen to grab something to eat, then goes to his room to work on the orphanage's ledger.
By candlelight, Eamond poured over his ledger. Coal, medicine, blankets—the numbers climbed uncomfortably close to his total assets. Then the margins of the page, he sketched risk analyses for the excavation: potential yield, orphan health cost, temple guardians' threats.
He paused at a wooden horse Pip had carved, branded with Lysandra's flames and inscribed with TRUST. The word tightened around his heart. Trust: the one currency he could neither mint nor steal.
He blew out the candle.
Eamond repeated this cycle—market raids at dawn, ledger balancing at midday, secret rituals at dusk—day after day, until precisely three days before 19 Krum, the routine snapped.
As moonlight waned, Eamond closed his eyes and recalled Matron Celine's final plea—"Protect them."
He tucked the letter into his cloak, pocketed his last silver, and steeled himself. The ledger, the magic, the profits—it all led here.
Unbeknownst to Eamond, a lone figure melted into the dusk shadows at the edge of the courtyard. Cloaked in charcoal velvet, neither friend nor foe could yet be told—only the faint glint of keen eyes and the slight quiver of a ready blade betrayed the watcher's presence. As Eamond disappeared down the lantern-lit path toward the west tower, the shadow remained, silent and still, calculating whether to intervene… or exploit the inevitable outcome.