“Mm—this gold coin looks really valuable—better take it to Autumnwind City for an appraisal. Using it as-is might shortchange you.” After studying it a while, Lucia reluctantly handed the coin back.
She actually had no idea how to test its fineness, but she’d heard the Southern Alliance’s official gold coins were mostly gold-plated; you could judge lost value by the wear. This one seed to be solid gold—so that didn’t apply.
Also, the Alliance’s common coinage all shares the sa motif: a ring of many stars representing the mber nations. This coin was nothing like that.
“Where is Autumnwind City?” Yvette took the coin and slipped it back into her pocket.
“A bit far—walking takes a whole day.” Lucia tilted her head, thought a mont, then said, “Co back to the village with first. We have a market fair every half month. For an out-of-towner with, um, unclear circumstances like you, that’s safer.”
“All right.” Yvette also wanted to learn where exactly she was, as soon as possible.
A dozen minutes later, with her pale soles caked in mud, Sangren Village finally ca into view.
It was a mid-sized village of a few dozen households, complete with blacksmith, apothecary, and the usual inn-and-tavern. But Lucia didn’t take Yvette to the inn—she knew the innkeeper wouldn’t be able to make change for that coin and would very likely try to flimflam it away from her.
So she brought Yvette straight ho.
It was a two-story stone-and-timber house with a yard. Farm tools waiting for repair leaned in the ground-floor courtyard; at the center, the blacksmith’s shop rang with ding-ding clang-clang. Heat breathed from the forge, orange light dancing over the plain features of a burly middle-aged man.
“Father!” Lucia called, hurrying over and chattering out the situation.
Yvette’s gaze fell on the man—and she noted that his mana was surprisingly high.
Another oddity: Lucia’s hair was red with a purple gradient, while her father’s was brown. Add in that they didn’t look much alike—one plain and sturdy, the other adorably delicate—and certain guesses ca easily.
After listening, the man’s brows knit. Lucia’s ask was simple: take in the amnesiac silver-haired girl for a while and give her a roof. He clearly wasn’t keen.
After a hesitation, he looked to Yvette. “Miss Loxivia, hello. I’m Eamon Sterling, Lucia’s father, and as you can see, a blacksmith.”
“Hello, Mr. Sterling,” Yvette said. “I’m sorry, but as for staying here, I can’t really offer that sort of—”
“Why not?” Lucia cut in. “Don’t we still have that extra room? You turned it into storage, but there’s plenty of space left.”
She added, “Yvette has a gold coin. She can pay.”
Eamon gave her a look. “This isn’t about money—”
Yvette produced the ancient coin and handed it over. He blinked, took it without thinking, then studied it by reflex. “It’s real—an ancient solid-gold coin, with Ancient Kingdom motifs. By the Tree God…”
By the Tree God? So this is an Evergreen Revelation Church parish, Yvette thought. Eamon went on, “…As it happens, I’ve got an old storehouse. With so refurbishing it could serve as a cottage. If you don’t mind, Miss Loxivia, you could buy that and move in.”
“Hasn’t that storehouse been idle forever? Who’d want it?” Lucia suspected her dad was trying to fleece a guest.
“What are you thinking?” Eamon ruffled her hair, speaking plainly. “This young Miss Loxivia is clearly of uncommon birth—and she’s carrying a pricey ancient coin. Her background’s no small thing. She may have lost her mories, but if soone could make her forget and dump her here, who knows what trouble is involved? If she buys our storehouse and lives there, whatever cos later won’t be our business. If she lodges in our ho, coin or no, and trouble cos knocking, we won’t be able to run.”
Blunt, yes—but practical.
Lucia bit her lip, unhappy; her father felt a little too cold-blooded. Yvette, however, found it reasonable and nodded. “Then I’ll buy the storehouse.”
She planned to stay a short while: first, to absorb the customs and basic common sense of this southern small nation called the Kingdom of Kisul; second, to get to know the villagers. From now on, wherever she went she’d leave ample traces—so her social identity would feel real and be easy to verify.
Once she bought the blacksmith family’s disused storehouse, the newcor’s move-in spread at once, becoming Sangren’s hot topic of late.
An amnesiac, mysterious girl; skin that clearly didn’t see fieldwork; the easy flourish of gold; a flawless face and shining silver hair—stack all that together and you got bard-worthy speculation. Overnight she beca the village’s brightest star; wherever she went, curious looks and warm greetings followed.
The next afternoon, after cleaning the corner-lot storehouse and moving in the new bed, wardrobe, and so on from the carpenter, Yvette sat on the bedside and said to the sweat-dabbing Lucia, “Thank you for the hard work, Lucia.”
“W-well—you did pay a premium for our crummy storehouse. Helping a bit is only right,” Lucia said, a little apologetic.
Indeed: for all his high-minded talk, Eamon had nad a sowhat steep price. He’d clearly pegged the noble-born girl who tossed out an ancient coin as soone who didn’t know the market, couldn’t haggle, and wouldn’t shop around.
Around Sangren, that was normal—your basic “ask for the moon.” But Lucia had never sold anything; she couldn’t really relate. Seeing her dad seize the chance—at an amnesiac girl, no less—left her cheeks hot with secondhand embarrassnt, like she’d been in on it.
Yvette smiled at her awkwardness. She didn’t mind a small premium—besides, she hadn’t actually paid yet; it was essentially on credit, the markup like interest on a loan. Then she asked, curious, “Lucia, are you local?”
From yesterday to today she’d noticed: in the Kingdom of Kisul—or at least in Sangren—nearly everyone had brown hair, much the sa.
Lucia, by contrast, had vivid red hair with a purple fade—very pretty—and a delicate, adorable face wholly unlike Eamon’s. One wondered how strong the mother’s blood had to be to produce such a beauty from nowhere.
“I’ve always lived here, so of course I’m local,” Lucia said. “But I’m not my dad’s by blood. He found outside the village eight years ago.”
Figures, Yvette thought.
From Lucia’s account, she learned the basics: eight years ago, a swaddled infant abandoned outside the village with no token or clue to her identity; a then-bachelor blacksmith, Eamon, took her in and raised her.
On the Radiant Continent, aside from genetic quirks, the only people who consistently had true red hair were the mainstream folk of the far northern Herman Empire. So the village rumor mill mostly assud she was at least half Imperial.
“But I don’t think it’s a big deal. My dad treats well, so don’t you dare try to comfort ,” Lucia warned suddenly at the end.
That said it all: she hated others assuming this was so tender scar. Yvette grunted assent—she hadn’t planned on “comforting” her anyway.
She added, “Your father seems quite capable.”
She’d gauged this via the rune siphon effect: asuring the pull on runes to estimate rune density, then inferring mana.
By that thod, a single glance told her Eamon Sterling was a fairly strong mage—hiding out in a little village like so reclusive master, for reasons unknown.
“He is. He’s the militia captain. He used to be a formidable adventurer—a spellblade type. Then he quit, saved up enough, ca ho to retire, and opened the forge.” Lucia straightened proudly. “My swordsmanship? Learned it from him.”
“I see.”
“Want to teach you a couple moves soti? Give you so self-defense. Free of charge.” Lucia offered, not hiding the note of boastfulness.
“All right. Thank you.” Yvette nodded.
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