Aelina felt a little better. Dressed again as the stout matron, she didn’t rush to flip the "Closed" sign. Before the empty storefront, farmers crossing the creaking bridge, ox-cart drivers, and merchants in carriages curiously eyed the strange shop by the roadside. News of a witch running a store—selling magically crafted cheap shoes—had spread faster than wildfire. By dawn, everyone across the river knew of Aelina.

Though the shop remained shut and the platform bare, crowds lingered outside, buzzing about the mysterious witch. With every retelling, the rumors grew darker.

The round-faced merchant suffered most. That morning’s flood of coins had soothed his grief over losing three wagons of food to the elven garrison on the bridge. But now, hearing increasingly terrifying tales, he shifted uneasily on his seat.

"Did you hear?" An old man with a goatee and wooden staff embellished, "This witch served an ancient noble house of the Nophia Empire. She conjures things from nothing—turning dirt to wheat, straw to boots. They say a thousand souls sew clothes for her inside that wooden box."

"I saw it myself!" another cried. "People stuffed weeds into her box all day, and out popped shoes!"

"She’s ageless," a youth insisted. "Don’t be fooled by her raspy voice and plump frame—she looks like my aunt. But I saw her face the other day: whiter than flour, smoother than my baby’s skin. They say a brave Elven Knight’s in love with her. He’s off to slay a dragon for her!"

"Her goods are dirt cheap. I heard someone traded a pebble for shoes."

"Unlike that round-faced cheat!" someone spat. "He charges a gold coin for one potato. When starving folk begged him for mercy, he sneered, ‘Why feed you corpses? I’d rather give it to a dog—it at least guards my house!’"

The final version reaching the merchant’s ears painted Aelina as a witch from an ancient bloodline, roaming with a box of damned souls, hunting corrupt hearts to imprison and force into endless shoemaking.

He paced anxiously. He only half-believed such exaggerations—yet the gypsy crone’s warning echoed: *"A silver-haired woman with golden eyes will shatter your mission with forbidden arts. She is your doom."*

He’d scoffed then.

*"Pay me 328 coppers,"* the crone had rasped, *"and I’ll reverse your fate."*

He’d laughed. Such charlatans always preyed on fears. He’d tossed a silver coin to guards, ordering them to beat the old fraud. As she screamed prophecies about his underwear color, the whole caravan had roared with laughter—even him.

Now, recalling how she’d been *right* about his underwear, his hands trembled. He gulped beer from his flask until his nerves steadied. This mission meant everything. He’d spent his fortune and favors to secure this contract from the Church of Waukeen. Success would elevate his status. He’d sensed the Nophia Empire’s weakness and the Elves’ rise. As one of the Church’s first liaisons to the Elves, his future gleamed—even if he was just a grain overseer now.

*This cannot fail.*

Beer sloshed from his tightened grip. He spun toward his partner haggling with starving refugees. "Double the price for all grain. Add one silver."

A carpenter’s face paled as the vendor snatched back his grain sack. "Prices just rose, beggars! Still haggling?" The merchant relished the man’s despair. *Hunger makes people sell anything.*

Last night, the elven officer had confided: their daily bridge permits were far fewer than applicants. The Elves meant to claim all lands under their hooves. Thousands would be stranded on the far bank, waiting until their food ran out.

Flushed with drink, the merchant glared at the witch on the rooftop. "Just a witch. What can you possibly use against me?"

Unaware of the golden ape’s ambitions, Aelina surveyed the sprawling refugee camp across the river—vastly larger than this side. The narrow bridge choked with people, while only a few lucky souls crossed the island’s far end. The elven garrison’s island fortress, guarding the bridge’s heart, let just thirty-one soldiers extort thousands.

A wagon groaned onto the bridge from the island’s gate, piled high with goods, its axles shrieking. War refugees weren’t just peasants—nobles and merchants fled too.

*"Revenge will have to wait,"* Aelina mused. Without its armed guards—swords at hips, spears in hand, wooden shields on backs—the starving mob would have devoured the wagon whole. In chaos, grain was worth more than gold. But life mattered more, especially to the rich. She could trade wagon repairs, crossbows, even Full Armor for half that grain.

Her revenge would wait.

She recalled Lys’s jealous glare last night when she’d mentioned the Golden Ape risking his life to avenge her. Aelina almost laughed. She’d never believed he’d kill those bandits. Fleeing their assault, she’d seen their numbers swell to thirty-one. That ape was all impulse—youthful heat fading by dawn. After hours of chasing, he’d surely have muttered, *"Rest first. Sharpen the axe to chop wood better,"* then sat down. Cold under the stars, he’d rationalized: *"Aelina’s just a loose woman. Staying with her made me a fool. Not taking her that night was mercy enough."*

*"She meant to kill me! Why else leave a weak spot in my chest armor? Treacherous witch!"*

Or: *"I worked for her for free. Saved her life. I owe her nothing."*

Even if he’d charged blindly into the wilderness and found them? He’d see thirty-one bandits, hesitate, fingers brushing his sword hilt. *"If I charge and die... who’ll bury me? Maybe Aelina would weep. But she never promised tears. She’s always cold. What if I kill them all, and she just thanks me icily before walking away?"*

He’d flee. Back at camp, he’d boast to the naive priestess: *"Alas, the bandits hid from me. Else I’d have brought their heads!"* And that foolish girl would sob into his chest: *"Wahhh... I’m just glad you’re back!"*

*Exactly as I thought,* Aelina decided. *I expect nothing from an ape’s morals.*

Hand slipping into her cloak to grip the Molecular Reconstructor, she descended the steps. The waiting crowd fell silent, staring at the sturdy witch. Yes—Aelina had padded her waist and arms with cloth, transforming into a middle-aged farmwife.

Her thick legs blocked the groaning wagon. The white-bearded driver reined in his bony horse. "Which peasant dares block the Baron’s path? Guards—run her through!"

Guards advanced. One nocked an arrow in a frayed bow.

Aelina’s starry eyes flicked dismissively over the rusted spear aimed at her face.

"Rotted bowstrings. Rusty spear tips. Rotting hide armor. And a wagon about to collapse." Her voice turned bright, salesman-sharp: "Silverhaired Witch’s ancestral magic! Custom upgrades available! Wagon repairs guaranteed better than new! Still wearing beast hides? I can forge you Full Armor!"

They exchanged glances. The old driver conferred with his master, then approached Aelina with wary politeness. "Are you... the witch everyone’s talking about?"

"Indeed." Aelina planted her hands on her hips.