Joran Duskwing's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Joran Duskwing had forty ember-scale relics locked in his cellar, and not one buyer rich enough to want them. He crouched by the chest and ran a thumb over the scaled scars on both arms. The relics had given him those burns. He had spent every coin at his belt to corner their trade, and now the coin was gone and the relics sat idle. He needed one wealthy buyer. One sale big enough to prove the hoard was worth guarding. Without it, he owned a room full of stone and a debt that grew each day. The trouble was trust. The rich merchants in town called his relics fakes. They would not pay until someone proved the scales were real. So Joran wrapped three relics in cloth and carried them to the one person whose word the buyers feared: Agatha Voss. She traded cures and curses from her doorstep, and she never took coin. That was the danger. Joran had nothing else she wanted. He found her hunched on her step, sorting small skulls on a string, her bone-white braids swinging as she worked. "You want my mark on your stones," Agatha said, before he spoke. She did not look up. "So the fat purses believe you." "Name your price," Joran said. He set the cloth down and unwrapped one scale. It caught the light like a live coal. Agatha touched it with one crooked finger. Her eyes narrowed. "These are true ember-scale. Old. Angry." She smiled, and it was not kind. "But I take no coin, merchant. You know my rule." Joran's jaw tightened. "Then what?" She pointed her gnarled stick past his shoulder. In her yard, a winged dog paced a rope, ears sharp, nose working the air. "That beast sniffs out ember-scale better than any man. It found these for me once. I want it gone. It eats too much and it will not obey." She leaned close. "Take the creature. I stamp your relics true. Refuse, and no buyer in this town touches your stones." Joran looked at the winged dog. It looked back, tail high, alert. He did not want it. He wanted his sale. But her mark was the only key to the wealthy buyer he needed. "Done," he said. Agatha spat on her palm and pressed it to each scale. A dark print set into the stone and would not rub off. "Now they are true, and every buyer will know it," she said. "The word will spread by nightfall." Joran gathered his relics and took the rope. The winged dog trotted at his heel, sniffing his boots, his belt, the air. By dawn the rich merchants would come to his door at last. He had his proof. He also had a beast that hunted ember-scale on its own, and a witch who wanted it far away from her.