The traders' den in Three Corners was small, but loud enough that a person could feel the noise in their chest. Merchants hollered over one another as they tried to win customers. Some offered spices brought from the coasts. Others showed dyed cloth and folded tunics that smelled faintly of river mint used to keep moths away. Metalworkers hammered at small pieces of jewelry on makeshift anvils. Children ran through the narrow paths between the stalls, dodging baskets and drifting smells of roasted meat. Despite the sun already meeting the horizon, the coming and going of travelers seemed to keep the place afloat even as the torches were being lit.

  Maruzan stepped into the middle of the chaos and felt himself relax a little. He had grown up in places like this. Markets had been his home for longer than any house. As a young man, he had spent much time in Elzibar’s market, seeing how storytelling and salesmanship could often seem interchangeable. Life had been hard then, but simple in a way he sometimes missed. Now, whenever he walked into a crowd and heard people bargaining over the cost of a belt buckle, something inside him settled. Markets made sense. People wanted to buy, sell, argue, and laugh. There were no political games hiding in the corners and no magical threats waiting behind doors. Just life.

  He walked slowly between the stalls, letting his eyes move over the worn tables and crates piled high with goods. Most of it was familiar. He could spot the quality of a piece of leather from ten steps away and often paused to inspect the stitching on a strap or the grain of a sheath. Habit made him do it. He was a leader now, a father, and a warrior when needed. But somewhere deep down, he was still the boy who wanted to make something useful with his hands.

  He was about to pass a woodworker’s stall when something caught his eye.

  A mirror.

  It stood propped against a small stack of polished bowls, its wooden frame plain and unpainted. The glass, however, was perfectly smooth, catching the early evening light in a quiet shimmer. Mirrors were rare in a place like this. Even nobles treated them like treasures. Most common folk saw their reflections only in water or in the shine of a polished kettle.

  The merchant noticed Maruzan looking and called out a price that was much more than the item was worth. Maruzan ignored the number and stepped closer. He crouched slowly and lifted the mirror, surprised by how light it felt.

  When he looked into it, he froze.

  The face staring back at him did not match the one he still pictured in his mind. His eyes seemed older. The creases at the corners had deepened, even though he did not remember when it had happened. His jaw looked firmer, almost harsh. His hair, once completely dark, now had streaks of silver that were more obvious in the clear reflection.

  He turned the mirror slightly, watching the light change the lines of his face.

  Years had passed since he had last seen himself this clearly. He wondered, almost shyly, whether Velthur would recognize this older version of him if they were separated again for long. He also wondered if his father, wherever he rested now, would even believe this was the same boy he had raised.

  A loud burst of laughter jolted him out of his thoughts.

  Two boys no older than ten raced past him and ducked behind the woodworker’s crates. They were thin in the way children often were in poor villages. Their tunics hung loose from their shoulders, patched several times with different shades of cloth. After a moment, they collapsed on the ground and tried to catch their breath.

  Maruzan set the mirror back in its place and walked a couple steps toward them. He did not want to intrude, but he also remembered what hunger felt like when he was that age.

  The taller boy groaned. “I wish I had a loaf right now.”

  The other boy nodded and rubbed his stomach. “Even the hard kind.”

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  Maruzan reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of bread from earlier that morning. It was a little tough, but still good enough to eat. He knelt beside them.

  “Here,” he said gently. “It is not fresh, but it is something.”

  The boys looked at him with wide eyes. They hesitated for only a moment before one took the bread and split it with the other. They ate quickly, holding the pieces tight so nothing would fall. When their chewing slowed, they finally looked up again.

  “Thank you,” the taller boy said. “You a soldier or something?”

  Maruzan sat down on a wooden crate nearby. “Something like that.”

  “You got family?” the shorter boy asked, wiping crumbs from his lip.

  Maruzan hesitated. He felt the question settle in him with a strange weight. He nodded. “Yes. I have a son.”

  This drew even more interest. Children loved stories of heroes and families. They leaned forward.

  “What is he like?” the taller one asked.

  Maruzan smiled without realizing it. “He is smarter than I ever was. He studies magic at a college. Real magic. Not tricks or small charms. He reads old scripts and speaks to scholars. And he has a good heart. He sees people clearly, sometimes more clearly than they see themselves.”

  The shorter boy grinned. “Why is that good?”

  Maruzan shrugged. “When you understand others, you learn to help them. My son does that, even when it is dangerous.”

  He paused. A familiar knot formed in his chest. He kept his voice steady. “I am proud of him. More than I can explain.”

  The taller boy studied his face. “You look happy when you talk about him.”

  Maruzan felt the words hit him deeper than expected. He had been smiling. Not a small grin, but a real one. And he did feel happy. He always did when talking about Velthur. But there was also fear under that feeling, a fear that was harder to name.

  He wondered if Velthur would keep growing away from him. The college would teach him things that Maruzan could not even pretend to understand. Magic was dangerous, even for those meant to use it. And the world seemed interested in testing Velthur with things no child should face. Maruzan still remembered the day of the kobold attack on Elzibar, the scars it left on both of them, and the strange path that had followed.

  Would there come a time when his son protected him instead of the other way around?

  He did not want to think about it too much. Not here. Not in front of these boys.

  He tore off the last piece of bread and handed it to them. “Eat the rest. You will need the strength if you plan to keep running around.”

  They took it eagerly and scrambled to their feet.

  “Thank you, sir!” one called as they sprinted off again.

  Maruzan sat alone for a moment, listening to their laughter echo through the market. He felt something shift inside him. The mirror had shown him the lines of age, but these children had reminded him that despite all the battles, he was still capable of giving simple kindness. It was a small comfort, but it mattered more than he expected.

  He turned to look back at the woodworker’s stall and noticed the mirror again. It seemed almost strange that a simple piece of glass had held up such a harsh truth. He surprised himself by considering whether he should buy it. Part of him wanted to keep it, to remind himself of the years he had lived, the roads he had walked, and the father he still hoped to be.

  But mirrors were expensive. And heavy. And he was not sure he liked the thought of seeing his face every day. He had learned long ago that some things were easier to face when they remained unseen.

  He stood and stepped away from the stall.

  As he walked deeper into the trader's den, the sun lowered in the sky. The shouts of the merchants became softer as they wrapped up their goods. The evening breeze drifted through the rows of canvas tarps, carrying the fading scent of roasted meat and burning wood.

  Maruzan watched the light push its way through the covered walkways until it touched the tops of the trees outside the market. Their leaves were bright with gold, almost glowing from the setting sun.

  He took a deep breath and let the moment settle.

  Whatever happened next, he knew one thing clearly. He still had a road to walk. Velthur did too. And somewhere ahead, their paths would meet again in ways neither of them could yet understand.

  He started toward the inn where the warband was waiting.

  The market faded behind him, but the thoughts it stirred would not leave so easily.

  He had seen his reflection clearly for the first time in years.

  Now he had to decide what kind of man he wanted that reflection to become.