Hearthglen was no ordinary town. It was the beating heart of the Spinebride Alliance, a place where wealth and power collided in the open streets. Marble-paved avenues shone under the midday sun, lined with stalls that displayed only the finest goods permitted by the Alliance council: enchanted silks, imported spices, gemstones cut by foxkin jewelers, and armor forged in lupen smithies. Even the beggars at the gates wore shoes, for no poverty was tolerated within Hearthglen's walls.
Tall banners bearing the Seven Stars emblem fluttered from balconies, signaling the presence of nobles who had arrived for the quarterly Alliance session. Carriages lacquered in gold and bronze rumbled past, each bearing the crest of a different high family. Servants rushed to and fro, delivering parcels of rare wine, silk, and scrolls. The town was alive with whispers of deals, rumors of rivalries, and the clang of coin changing hands.
In a shaded winehouse at the edge of the Grand Market, two Ramaris rchants sat at a low polished table. They wore robes trimd with gold thread, their horns capped with silver. A servant poured crystal cups of plum-colored wine while the rchants reclined on velvet cushions, watching the bustle outside through arched windows.
The first ramaris sighed, swirling his drink."Too many banners in the streets today. Even the inns are stuffed with Ursarok generals and their escorts. I had to bribe a stablehand just to get my carriage stored."
"Look at them," one muttered, jerking his chin at the banners stamped with a golden paw. "House Bronzefang. Every quarter they show up, chests out, like they own the whole Alliance."
The other snorted. "Bronzefang? Please. They've been coasting on old glory since the War of Pines. Everyone knows the real claws now belong to Ironhide clan. General Vorstag alone could crush half the Lupen armies by breakfast."
The first rchant swirled his wine. "Vorstag's too busy eating half his weight in beef every day. No wonder the Ursarok treasury bleeds coin. Strong as oxen, but they've got all the subtlety of one too. You ever tried negotiating trade with them? It's like talking to a wall with teeth."
His companion chuckled. "Doesn't matter. They're still the top dogs—well, bears. Ursarok families fight over who gets to 'protect' the Alliance borders, and everyone else foots the bill. Even their cubs get cushy officer posts."
The first raised a brow. "Speaking of cubs, you hear about Bronzefang's youngest? Supposedly challenged a Lupen captain to a duel after losing at dice. Tore the poor wolf's arm clean off."
That got a laugh. "Figures. And the Lupen probably thanked him for the honor."
The first smirked. "Which brings us nicely to the wolves…"
The second leaned forward, voice dropping like he was letting slip so grand secret. "Ah, the Lupens. Loyal to a fault. Best smiths in the Seven, no question. Every blade worth holding cos out of their forges. But let's not pretend—they live on their knees to the Ursarok. Lapdogs in armor."
The first rchant tilted his head. "Not all of them. Captain Erynd of the Blackfangs? Heard he refused to bow to Vorstag once. Nearly lost his head for it."
"Key word: nearly," the other shot back. "He fell in line quick enough. The wolves are strong, no denying it, but strength without independence just makes them good servants. Always chasing Ursarok scraps."
The first waved his cup. "Still, I'll give them this—they train hard. A Lupen pup swings a hamr before he can walk. No Lupen forge, no Ursarok swords. Without them, the bears would be swinging tree branches."
"True," the second admitted, then smirked. "But don't forget—without us, none of that steel moves past their borders."
The first raised his glass, grinning. "Ah, finally. Ramaris. The backbone of the Alliance."
They clinked cups.
"Trade, caravans, coinflow—we're the ones making sure these noble brutes can keep showing off their armor. We keep the machine running, and no one gives us the credit we deserve."
"Of course they don't," the second said bitterly. "We don't roar like bears or clank like wolves. But when the ledgers close? We're the ones with the power. Tell a single war that didn't depend on our caravans. You can't."
The first leaned back, smug. "That's why we don't need to win battles. We win with numbers. Wars end, generals die, but debts?" He tapped his cup. "Debts never disappear."
The second chuckled darkly. "Just ask the Ursarok treasury."
"Ha! Or the foxkins, for that matter—"
That sparked a new round of laughter.
"Oh, the Foxkins. Gods, where do I start?"
The first rchant lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Slippery little bastards. Weakest race on the battlefield, can't swing a sword without dropping it. But politics? They own half the council halls. Smile in your face while gutting your accounts behind your back."
The second grinned. "Rember when House Redtail 'accidentally' introduced that tariff on river tolls? Wiped out three Lupen guilds in one season. All legal. All sealed with Alliance stamps. And then, conveniently, Redtail caravans just happened to control the rivers. Coincidence?"
"Coincidence, my tail," the first spat. "Foxkins are the kind you don't notice until your purse is empty and your land deed's missing. I swear, half the Alliance already belongs to them, but we're too blind to see it."
The second rchant leaned back, smirk sharp as a blade. "So say the Ursarok rule. So say the Ramaris. But ?" He tapped his cup. "I think the foxes are laughing at all of us from behind the curtain."
The first rchant shivered. "Say that too loud, and you'll end up broke, banished, or floating face-down in the canals."
Both n shared a grim chuckle, the kind only rchants who'd seen too much coin vanish too quickly could share.
The two Ramaris rchants downed another round, the winehouse humming with chatter and lute music. A group of kobold dockhands stumbled in, reeking of river water and sweat, laughing too loudly for the velvet-cushioned room. The rchants wrinkled their noses.
"Speak of the devils," one muttered. "Kobolds. Always everywhere. You can't take two steps without tripping over one."
The other rchant chuckled. "True. But you have to admit—they're useful. Scouts, hunters, trackers, bown… they fill every gap. Cheapest labor you'll ever hire, too."
"Cheapest, aye," the first agreed. "And the most replaceable. You rember the Siege of Cragspire? They say three whole battalions of kobolds were thrown into the front lines just to tire out the enemy. By dawn, not one survived. And what did the Ursarok call them? 'Good boys.'"
That got a dark laugh. "Good boys, bad graves. Still, you have to give credit—kobolds breed faster than rabbits. You lose a hundred, a hundred more show up next season with bows in hand. You can't kill off a tide."
The first leaned back, sighing. "They may be the Alliance's backbone, but they'll never climb the ladder. Too common. Too many. Nobles don't co from burrows."
The second waved dismissively. "Better common kobolds than those Frogkin filth."
The first rchant barked a laugh. "Ah, the Frogkin. Now there's a race everyone loves to hate."
"Deservedly," the second sneered. "No land, no loyalty, no manners. Parasites, the lot of them. If they're not undercutting honest work with cheap labor, they're ambushing caravans in the swamps."
"You say that, but half the herbal redies in Hearthglen co from Frogkin hands," the first countered. "You catch a fever, you'll want their poultices. Their fishing's not half-bad either, when they're not poisoning the rivers."
"Poultices and fish don't pay for their cris," the other spat. "You heard what happened to Lord Caldris's caravan last season? Thirty wagons raided. Survivors swore it was Frogkin rcenaries, hired by his rivals. And now the Alliance slaps sanctions on them—no trade, no protection. They're eating themselves alive."
The first rchant smirked. "Hells, they've always eaten themselves alive. I've heard they even sell out their own clans. No wonder their numbers swell and die so quick. High birthrate, higher death rate."
The second leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And yet… and yet… they're still around. You can't kill weeds. And weeds spread fast."
For a mont, both sat in silence, sipping their wine, before the first rchant chuckled dryly.
"Still better to deal with frogs than to deal with… them."
The second stiffened, eyes narrowing. "Don't. Not so loud."
The first glanced around, then leaned in, grinning with a drunken edge. "Co now, we're in Hearthglen. Everyone's thinking it. The Gryphons."
The second hissed, "Keep your voice down! You want to bring them circling overhead?"
But the first was already going. "Legends say one gryphon could tear through ten Ursarok before breakfast. And when they descend from the peaks? Villages vanish. Whole villages. Rember Redhall? Burned to the ground after their envoy called them lazy carrion-birds. They say the streets ran red with blood and—"
"—and the roofs dripped with entrails," the second finished grimly. "I've heard the story. Everyone's heard the story." He swallowed hard, glancing toward the stained-glass window like he half expected a shadow to pass over it. "Say what you want about Ursarok might or Foxkin sches, but the gryphons? They don't rule with gold or armies. They rule with fear. The only reason they're last in rank is because they can't be bothered to play the ga."
The first rchant smirked, lowering his cup. "Aye. Too busy sleeping in their mountain nests until they're hungry enough to remind us who really sits on top."
The second shivered, his voice a whisper. "They say we're not allies to the gryphons. We're livestock. The Seven Stars are just their larder."
The first let out a harsh laugh, but it lacked mirth. "And pray they stay full, then. Because the day a gryphon's belly rumbles…"
The second rchant, already half a glass ahead, waved his hand lazily. "Foxkin, though… they've always thought themselves cleverer than the rest. Too clever, maybe. So say they're the real rulers of the Alliance."
The first rchant scoffed. "Rulers? Hah. They play with scrolls and spells, sure, but rulers? No. They just whisper behind curtains and pull strings where no one can see. Cunning, yes. Dangerous, sure. But rulers?"
The second leaned forward with a sly grin. "Dangerous, aye. Do you rember the story? The Alliance session, five years ago?"
The first raised a brow. "The one with Lord Velthir of the Silver-Pelt Foxes?"
"That's the one," the second said, lowering his voice so that only their table could hear. "Velthir stood right there in the Grand Hall, puffed up on wine and his own wit, and cursed the Gryphons. Called them freeloaders, carrion-birds too fat and lazy to sit in the council."
The first rchant winced. "Bold. Stupid, but bold."
"Bold enough to die for it," the second muttered. "They say the roof split open. No one rang the bells, no one saw it coming. A shadow just fell across the hall, and then—whoosh!—a gryphon descended right through the skylight. Massive, black as smoke. It seized Velthir in its talons and tore him into the sky before anyone could draw breath."
The first swallowed, his face pale. "And then?"
"And then…" The second hesitated, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "…and then Hearthglen itself wore his entrails. His body burst in the air. Blood, guts, bone—all painted across the roofs and cobbles. By the ti the guards rushed outside, the gryphon was gone. Only pieces remained. Pieces… everywhere."
The first made a strangled noise and drained his cup in one gulp. "Gods above."
"It didn't end there," the second continued grimly. "The Silver-Pelt estate was torn apart the sa night. No witnesses. Just blood sared across the walls, the streets, even the market stalls. The whole clan wiped out. Children, servants, dogs—everyone. Gone. Hearthglen stank of iron for weeks."
Silence fell over the winehouse. Even the kobolds at the next table tucked their tails and muttered nothing.
But then—
A heavy voice, deep and rumbling, cut through the hush.
"Do you two want to die so badly?"
The rchants froze. Standing behind them was a towering Ursarok male, his fur braided with knightly cords, his armor plain but polished. At his side stood a tall, sharp-eyed she-bear, her presence colder than steel.
"W-we ant no harm—" the first rchant stamred.
The female Ursarok's gaze was rciless. "Speaking of Gryphons in such a way is treason to the Alliance. A cri punishable by death. Choose your words with more care."
Both Ramaris nearly fell from their seats in their rush to bow. "Our deepest apologies, Commander! My lady! We were loose with our tongues, forgive us!"
The knight commander held their gaze for a tense mont, then softened with a grunt. "Then let it end there. Keep your lives, and keep your mouths shut." He turned to his partner, and with one last warning glare, the Ursarok couple left the tavern.
The silence lingered until the rchants dared to breathe again. Then, predictably, the gossip began anew.
"By the gods… that was Commander Urma, wasn't it? The very sa who defended Stonehorn Crossing against the orc raiders five winters ago."
"And his wife, Lady Ylvima," the second whispered. "From the House of Silverfury. The family that never joined the Alliance. So say they can sense the truth in a man's soul, strip him bare with just a glance."
The first leaned in. "Others say that's exactly why they never bent knee. That the Alliance was built on sothing foul, sothing they could sll in its foundation. That's why they kept their distance."
The second gave a nervous chuckle. "Sinister rumors for sinister tis. Still, imagine marrying into that house. Poor Urma—"
The sound of a cup slamming on the counter made them both jump.
The Ursarok tavern keeper glared down at them, wiping the bar with a rag like it was their throats. His voice was a growl that rumbled deep in his chest.
"You two talk too much. Drink, pay, and leave before your tongues hang you."
The rchants glanced at each other, paling. Neither dared reply. They simply bowed their heads, drained their cups, and fumbled for their coin.
The tavern fell quiet again, save for the creak of the bar's beams and the whisper of the banners outside, flapping with Hearthglen's pride.
But in the silence, one truth weighed heavier than all the gossip combined:In Hearthglen, words could kill faster than blades.
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