The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced meat filled the air long before the caravan wheels touched the cobbles of Qinghe.
By noon, half the town had gathered near the gates.
Caravans were rare. Qinghe was tucked into the hills, far from main roads. Traders only came when the weather was good, and when they needed rare herbs from Old Yun or spiritwood from the northern groves.
This caravan had six wagons, painted in faded red and brown, their awnings patched with northern thread. Each wagon bore the crest of the Wandering Vermilion Pavilion, a merchant alliance known to deal in odd things — jade mirrors, talking birds, fermented centipede wine.
The children ran up first.
The merchants laughed and tossed sweets and nut candies.
Yun Long stood a little further back, arms crossed, eyes wide. He loved watching caravans — the way the wagons creaked, the foreigners with odd accents, the colors and smells.
This time, a short, round man wearing a floppy fur hat caught his eye.
He was loud, cheerful, and walked like a bouncing rice ball.
"Make way! Make way!" he boomed. "Iron pots! Snake oil! Healing powder for mothers and strong tea for grumpy fathers! I have it all! Including dreams in a bottle!"
Laughter erupted.
Even Old Chen cracked a smile. "Dreams, eh? I'd pay you to take some of mine away."
The round merchant bowed with exaggerated flair. "I take trade in copper, silver, or secrets." raising a loud bout of laughter from the villagers.
---
Behind him, another man stepped down quietly from a darker wagon — thin, with dark eyes, and a cloth-wrapped package slung over his shoulder.
Unlike the loud merchant, he spoke to no one.
But his eyes swept the town square like someone reading a map.
No one noticed him much.
But Yun Long's eyes lingered on him for a moment, unsure why.
Just a traveler, he thought.
---
By evening, the square had turned festive.
Stalls opened. Lanterns were hung. Madam Su bought thread and pepper. Old Yun haggled for a new teacup.
Yun Long lingered near the herbal stall, poking through dried fruit and watching the clumsy hawk kept in a cage beside the traveling scribes.
It was when he touched one of the dried roots — a curved brown herb labeled "Stoneleaf" — that something stirred.
Not in him.
But in the pouch at his chest.
He froze.
A low vibration. Very faint. Like a buzzing gnat… or a soft hum.
He pulled the pouch out and checked. The merchant's strange stone was cold, still dull.
But he felt something when holding the root.
A coincidence?
"Boy," a voice said behind him.
It was the quiet traveler — the man with the cloth-wrapped bundle.
Yun Long blinked. "Yes?"
"That herb… not for you."
The man didn't explain.
Just turned and walked away into the crowd.
---
That night, as fires died and stars glittered, Yun Long sat on the roof of his small house, legs swinging, watching the last flickers of lanterns.
He turned the stone in his hand again.
Still nothing.
But he didn't imagine it.
Right?
---
Meanwhile….On the edge of the Firewind Plateau, a black-robed rider galloped across cracked stone.
He stopped near a weathered shrine.
Another man waited there — tall, masked, arms folded.
"The flame patterns match the scroll," the rider said, handing over a strip of parchment. "But they're faint. Old. Fading."
The masked man looked toward the horizon.
"We're already late," he muttered. "But it's better this way. The sects don't watch here."
"Should we alert the envoy?"
The man shook his head. "Let them sleep a little longer. The cracks haven't spread yet."
---