The elder smiled, visibly relaxing at Ronan's promise. He exhaled, the sound barely audible. He didn't expect much food from Ronan, but the offer itself was significant; ordinary humans wouldn't offer such help. Elves, with their long lifespans, saw temporary difficulties as fleeting. Except, perhaps, for one thing: money.
It was always money. Trade, currency, value, concepts the elves observed but never mastered. They'd seen empires rise and fall, but none of it seed relevant to a people whose ti moved slowly and whose needs were few. But now, after five years of shortages and rising prices, even the ageless felt ti's pressure.
To show generosity, the elder hurried back to his dwelling. He returned quickly, holding a carefully wrapped bundle. The cloth was soft, pale blue, embroidered with silver threads. He unwrapped it, revealing a book, a magic book, its glyphs seeming to shift in the light.
He presented it to Ronan, implying he could sell it for money. As a mythical-era spell, it should fetch a considerable sum.
Ronan was puzzled. He looked at the book, then at the elder. Wasn't this money? Why would the elves...?
The book was clearly valuable. The binding alone could pay for a year's worth of food in a human city. It exuded power. Yet, the elder treated it like a trinket. Ronan was about to ask.
Before he could, the elder sighed, explaining, "We elves aren't adept at trade; we're not sensitive to monetary value. We once sold a ten-thousand-gold-coin spell for five hundred. Since then, we've stopped selling magic for profit. The market value is too unpredictable."
He spoke with regret and bemusent, like recalling a youthful mistake. He continued, his gaze serious. "This is one of my personal treasures. It was created three thousand years ago, in the mythical era, by a great mage. Mr. Ronan, please accept this. Our village's future rests on your shoulders. As a human, you should be able to maximize this book's value."
There was no ceremony, just a humble offering from soone who believed in Ronan's potential, not because of prophecy, but because Ronan had offered help.
Ronan felt uncomfortable. He took the book, nodding. "No need for such pronouncents, Elder. Rest assured. As a three-thousand-year-old artifact, many mages will be interested. But if possible, it's best not to sell it. It's one of your village's treasures, isn't it?"
He turned the book over, the leather warm beneath his fingers. Despite its age, it showed no wear. Three thousand years... Even relics from the Spring and Autumn period paled in comparison. The weight of history was imnse.
He imagined it being written while human tribes were learning to forge iron. And now, it was casually given to him. The dissonance was dizzying.
But the elder waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, it's just sothing from three thousand years ago. It's only slightly older than I am; it's not particularly precious to . It's only because it's associated with legendary magic that I offered it. And this isn't the original; it's a copy. I have two or three more at ho; I could make more... but I haven't, to maintain the unspoken agreent between mages. Don't worry about it."
Ronan fell silent. A three-thousand-year-old artifact dismissed as worthless... This was the elven worldview? He was astounded. Now he understood why a ten-thousand-gold-coin spell had sold for five hundred. To soone who could live for centuries, sothing from a hundred years ago would be insignificant. But to a human, a hundred years is a distant past.
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