“Once, a primordial dragon named Winter tried to court another dragon named Summer. But Summer was a free spirit and never stayed for long. Each time she left, Winter would freeze himself in ice to not bother the rest of the world with his moping, and dream until she returned so as to ease the passage of time without her presence.

  Tragically, Winter and Summer died at the same time during an overdramatic reunion where both flew too fast in their excitement and collided fatally mid-flight. However, the world continued to freeze and thaw, remembering the movement like a muscle. And thus, the dragons posthumously granted the world the seasons.” — Collection of All Stories From the Star Bard, author unknown

  “Fin! Psst, Fin!”

  Fin looked up from his latest work-in-progress and twisted his head around to the sound. A mess of long black curls peeked over the wooden fence he had been sitting against, and Fin grinned. It was just the person he had been waiting for. “Maryanne!”

  “Hold on! Let me get the door.” A few moments later, the back garden door swung open, and Maryanne swung her head outside. “Hurry up!”

  Fin hurried to put away his carving knives and hastily shoved the pile of wooden shavings beneath his feet beneath a nearby bush, like cleaning up a crime scene. Maryanne dragged him into her house’s garden by his arm. Though she was a good half head shorter than Fin, she had an iron grip. Fin didn’t think he could win an arm-wrestling match with her if they had a go at it. But then again, almost anyone could beat Fin in an arm-wrestling contest, even the other, younger orphans.

  It was to be expected, Fin mused. As a young boy, he had never enjoyed play-fighting or climbing trees with the others, preferring to stare in fascination at moss, trace shapes in the mud, or lounge around listening to birdsong. Even after he started taking on more laborious chores like collecting firewood or shoveling snow, the work he could accomplish each session always lagged behind his peers.

  That had changed a bit in the past couple years due to his frequent trips to Izkarius’s lair, but not by much. If anything, it’s his stamina that’s improved, and not his upper body strength.

  “Where were you yesterday?” She put her hands on her hips and pouted. “I waited outside for so long that my boots got soaked through!”

  “Sorry, sorry. Three of the kids got a really bad stomach ache and Matron Rena held me behind to help figure out why.”

  “Oh. And what was it?”

  “In the porridge, one of the kids wasn’t careful when preparing it and left some dead oat-husk worms in—"

  “Okay, okay. It’s fine. I get it.” She said quickly and twirled her hair, clearly uncomfortable. “Anyway, check this out!”

  She reached into her coat and pulled out a small booklet. Fin squinted at the letters, struggling to decipher the text with his poor (though comparatively above-average) reading skills. His eyes widened. “The… Compendium of Exotic Reshayim Creatures: Illustrations and Encyclopedia. What? You actually found it!”

  “Of course I did! I always keep my word. Merchants must be honest to succeed!”

  Fin rolled his eyes. He was pretty sure that Maryanne’s uncle and primary caretaker, the general store owner, was anything but honest with how often he changed his prices depending on who was asking. But Maryanne was different. She was awesome. Fin had gotten to know her in the process of procuring an herbology book the previous summer, as it was a good excuse for him to spend more time in the forest.

  With this, Fin would be able to make a truly impressive tribute for Izkarius. He wondered what the dragon’s reaction would be if Fin presented him with an animal he’d never seen before. After going through every single animal or plant he knew of, Fin had been running out of ideas for what to carve next.

  Just as he reached out to grab the booklet, Maryanne moved it protectively to her chest. “Nope! We’re trading, Mr. Summer!”

  “Fine, fine.” Maryanne truly was raised by a merchant, Fin lamented. Not an ounce of sentiment in her bones. He crossed his arms. “One carving of the same size as this book. You can choose the subject of the carving, but I have to make sure that it’s something I can actually make.”

  Maryanne turned her nose up. “You’re ripping me off. Do you know how expensive a book is? Much less something with illustrations about a foreign topic? This book was written overseas! It’s probably the only copy within the entire mountain range! You can’t tell me one carving of yours is worth more than that. You have to give me something else in addition.”

  Fin frowned but couldn’t refute her words. “What exactly do you want for it, then?”

  “I heard you can embroider things.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Matron Floris dropped by the store once and she had a new handkerchief with her. She gushed about how you had made it for her for the New Year, and she said your needlework was the best she had seen for your age.”

  Fin flushed. “It was only the fourth time I embroidered anything. I can’t say I’m very good at it. If you want me to embroider something for you, you can’t go back on our deal if what I made isn’t good enough.”

  “Well, I wanted you to embroider my portrait!”

  Fin stared at Maryanne, trying to convey the depths of his incredulity. “You’ve never embroidered something in your life, have you?”

  “Nope! Tried it once and gave up three stitches in. Is my request too hard?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Aw,” she pouted and smoothed out her winter skirt. Seeing the intricately lined cotton coating on her sleeves and jacket, which were clearly new, Fin pushed down a pang of envy. Maryanne tapped her chin. “How about… Oh! I know. Can you draw something for me instead?”

  “Your portrait?”

  “How did you guess?” Maryanne giggled.

  Fin scratched his head. “Why do you even want a portrait?”

  “Don’t pry into a lady’s secrets,” she said, turning her nose upward. “You can do it, right?”

  “Only if you provide me with the materials. Paper is way too expensive for me.”

  “I’m literally giving you a stack of paper right here!” She waved the booklet around.

  “Fair point, but still. You know what I mean. Blank paper. And a pencil. You’ll also have to give me multiple sheets. I might mess up.” Fin grinned.

  Maryanne glared at him, but didn’t outline her accusation. “I’ll be generous once. It’s a deal. One carving of my choice and a sketched portrait of me, in exchange for giving you this booklet.”

  "Can I have the book before I do all that for you?” Fin tried. She stared at him suspiciously and Fin raised his hands. “I literally can’t go anywhere! You’ll always be able to track me down and hound me for your stuff, okay?”

  “Hm, alright,” she forced out. “I’m setting a soft deadline for a month.” She paused, and furrowed her brow. “That’s not unreasonable for you, right? It's winter… so I can also throw in some snacks to speed things up! Extra motivation?”

  Fin chuckled. It was kind of cute how soft Maryanne could be when she wanted. “It’s fine. A month should be more than enough time. Let me know when I should pick up the materials.”

  The two children shook on it. And not a moment too soon, for a shrill voice sounded from inside the house—Madam Neris, the general store owner’s wife and Maryanne’s aunt.

  “Annie! What’s taking so long?”

  “I think she’s coming outside. Hurry! Get out, quick!” Maryanne shoved the booklet into Fin’s hands and practically pushed him out of the garden. The door slammed behind him.

  Half groaning and half laughing, Fin dusted himself off, made sure all his items were still on him, and glanced down triumphantly at the Compendium in his hands. He wasn’t going to run out of tributes anytime soon.

  ***

  The first merchant caravan of the year arrived at Ashdale Village just a week after the snow melted. Seven tarped wagons came rumbling and trundling along the main road, pulled by two bull hounds each.

  The hounds were immense in both height and weight, reared specifically for the rough weather and icy roads. As the wagons approached, Fin heard them sniffing and snuffling. It was always a magnificent sight—their canines gleaming yellow like butter and eyes glassy like a foggy window. The muscles beneath their sleek gray fur rippled with fatigued elegance from their long travels.

  They were beautiful, Fin thought, a perfect combination of symmetry, lethality, and dignity. They were hardly domesticated beasts, having retained and refined their raw, ancestral instincts of movement and rhythm.

  A gray head poked out from beneath the tarp of the first caravan, and a withered arm emerged, tapping the driver’s shoulder. The driver swept his gaze over at Fin and the crowd of thirty waiting around the village and, by extension, market square, then shouted in an unfamiliar language. The rest of the caravan slowly came to a stop.

  Fin shuffled as he waited, trying to ignore the numb pain in his feet. He had grown out of his old boots a year ago, but hadn’t had a chance to replace them yet. Leathers were on the shopping list Matron Floris had given him though, still crinkled in his hands, so Fin was hopeful. The biting cold didn’t help either. Even though the town itself was nestled between two mountains with forests blocking the harshest of winds, braving the dry and frigid air for more than an hour was difficult despite the passing of the first Melt.

  “They came late this year,” a man grumbled. “Again.” Fin’s ear twitched. He vaguely placed the voice as belonging to the salt seller down at Tronbour Alley.

  “The weather has been growing worse over the years,” muttered another gruffer, older voice. “Worse and more unpredictable. When I was a lad, spring would have already rolled around half a moon ago. But last year, it came early.”

  “Not good for the mushrooms…”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The voices grew more hushed, and Fin turned his full attention back onto the caravans. An elderly woman, who had spoken to the driver earlier, was stepping off the caravan. She clung to the driver with a shriveled but sturdy hand—her only stable limb.

  “My spirits!” She stretched. Her legs visibly shook beneath her large coat as she lightly gave each foot a few taps, almost as if testing her joints.

  “These arms and legs of mine are really unhappy this year,” she muttered, “I should give them some more time off these days, or they’ll quit like the other traders. Wimp-trodden nit-wits.” Before Fin could digest the absurdity of that statement, she turned to the waiting crowd.

  “Hail springtime to you!” It was a classic merchant greeting, especially coming out of the lean winter months.

  The caravan unloaded. A morning sluggish with cold suddenly snapped to life. Men and women bundled in travel furs hopped off the wagons and unloaded chest after chest of goods in practiced movements. Dyed fabrics and dry, spiced fruit formed a kaleidoscopic blur around Fin.

  He passed stacked crates and caught glimpses of strange, thumb-sized azure eggs, painted baskets, and delicate hairpins glinting in the early light. He paused at the last one—Maryanne would love them—then shook the thought away and moved on.All around him, Fin could hear the haggling start, voices growing louder as the first rays of dawn gradually strengthened around them and cast the muddy cobble roads and thatch roofs a shade of silvery blue.

  One by one, he meticulously went through the checklist, ensuring each item was picked with care.

  “How much for the pebbleberry vinegar?” Fin asked the closest trader, who looked just a bit older than him.

  “Eight crowns,” the man said, crossing his arms. “We also take thalers and silverbites, although we might not have much change for those.”

  Fin disregarded the latter part of his sentence and frowned at the price instead. “Eight crowns? For just a bottle?”

  “This comes from the same vineyards and brewery as the best aged wine over the Srathwhim Mountains, kid. Definitely high quality materials. If you can’t afford it, get something else.”

  “You aren’t offering other options though.” Fin gestured at the uniform crates set on the tables. “My orphanage needs some vinegar, but eight crowns is far too much.”

  The man’s face softened just a bit. Fin pursed his lips. Would it work? Younger merchants, he found, were usually more amenable. Seeing him hesitate, Fin continued. “Sir, I have no doubt about the quality of your product. It’s definitely a luxury, and I wouldn’t be trying to obtain it if there was a cheaper option. We’re not just using it for meals, but also for preserving food and to clean wounds.”

  The trader eyed Fin’s rag-tag appearance, gaze lingering on his boots, and bit his lip. “What can you do, then?”

  “Forty crowns is all my matron gave me.” It was a lie. Fin had sixty. “I still need to get new kitchenware, medicines, thread and iron needles, some soap blocks, oil—”

  “Okay, I get it, kid. Just tell me your limit.”

  “Three crowns is the most I can afford.”

  “Three?” The trader’s eyes practically bulged. Spittle narrowly missed Fin’s face. “You’re cutting the price by more than half! Orphan or not, I’ve never seen someone as shameless as you!”

  Fin raised his voice in return. “And I’m telling you, my hands are tied here!”

  “What’s the situation, boys?”

  Fin turned to see the old woman from before ambling steadily towards them. The trader immediately bowed his head and explained the situation, throwing more than a few unkind words into the mix. Whatever sympathy he had for Fin’s situation had been all but extinguished by his outrageous demand. It seemed he pushed a bit too far. Fin made a mental note to himself to not go under half next time.

  The old woman nodded along as the trader explained. Once he was finished, she turned her steely eyes to Fin. “Four,” was all she said.

  Fin held her gaze for three heartbeats, and he nodded with a jerk. “Okay, four.” She held out a hand, and Fin shook it, trying to ignore the comical sputtering of the trader next to them.

  A twinge of guilt poked at Fin as they exchanged coins and goods. The vinegar had been placed next to the wine, and maybe it was Fin’s imagination, but the fragrance seemed to rub off on it. It truly looked and smelled like a high quality product, and was probably worth six crowns. But Fin had no choice, and he wasn’t about to reject the kindness offered to him by the old woman.

  “Lewin is still quite green,” she said, lingering next to Fin. He flashed her a grateful but confused smile. “You seem rather well-versed in haggling, my dear.”

  “Haggling? Me? I’m just a poor orphan who scrapes by through people’s kindness.”

  And as if judging him worthy, she held out her hand again. “I am Oswelda.”

  “Fin Summer.” They shook once more. Her grip was firmer than the last.

  Fin took the opportunity to take a closer look at the old woman. Firm wrinkles spiderwebbed across Oswelda’s face, lending her a shrewd appearance anyone in her line of work would envy. For someone who mostly travelled for a profession, Oswelda also had fairly pale and unblemished skin. Her eyes had grown droopy with age, but still retained a mischievous spryness around the corners. Perhaps, as a young woman, she would’ve been the beauty of her town.

  As Fin appraised her age, she had also been studying him. “You’re rather old to stay in an orphanage, no?”

  Fin shrugged, and began looking over his list once more. “I still have some time. Sixteen is the cut-off age, and I have half a year left. I’ve been hunting around for jobs. It’s been quite unsuccessful.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Oh hoh! Do tell me! I always appreciate interesting stories.”

  “It’s not much of a story. The blacksmith says my arms are too puny. The glassmaker already has an apprentice and won’t take on another one. The carpenter cares more about practicality than aesthetics, and the apothecary is a crazed old man who chased me out of his store with a dried lizard tail when I expressed I wasn’t there to buy anything. I didn’t even get to ask about an apprenticeship!” Fin shrugged again as he wandered through the temporary stalls. “Push comes to shove, I can just join the mushroom gatherers. They’ve got no surplus of people.”

  Oswelda trailed after him. “You seem to be largely focusing on artisanal trades?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of my strengths. A lot of my hobbies could translate well to the crafts, embroidery—”

  “You embroider?” she asked with genuine shock.

  “According to other people, I’m quite good at it, though I haven’t done it as much.”

  “Fascinating. I’ve rarely met young boys like you who want to take on such girlish tasks.”

  Fin furrowed his brow. “People say that, but I don’t think there’s really a difference between what’s girlish and what’s not. Embroidery certainly hasn’t made me feel more like a girl. If anything, it’s only made me happy. It allows me to gift people I care about with something I’ve made with my own hands.”

  Oswelda hummed, though Fin wasn’t sure if it was of approval or not. He still had no idea which part of the world she was from or what traditions they had. “Ah pardon me, please continue, my dear Fin! It’s a curious philosophy you’ve got. What other skills have you got in your quiver?”

  “I suppose…” Fin ran through a list in his mind, feeling a little embarrassed at, when combined, how frivolous it all sounded. “I know a bit of herbology. I can sketch, cook, carve wood, do your average household chores, and that’s the main stuff.”

  “Carve wood?”

  “Yeah. One of the matrons inherited a set of wood carving tools and lent them to me.” Fin thought about his Matron Floris—that fuzzy memory five years ago of when she first demonstrated the basic carving techniques—and smiled. “I mostly make practical items like bowls or plates, but also some sculptures when I have the time.”

  “Sculptures. Are they good?”

  Something about her voice, like inching towards the edge of a precipice, made Fin halt. “I’d like to think they’re pretty good. I’m sorry, is there an issue?”

  “Why of course!” Oswelda raised her hands and gestured at the caravans. “You don’t think I came here just to sell things, do you? I also came to buy! Or in your case, barter.” She winked.

  It took Fin a couple seconds, and he grew excited too. “Ohh, you want my carvings! And I don’t need to spend my matron’s money!”

  “Smart kid.” The old woman smirked, and for a moment, Fin caught a glimpse of the greed and calculation that had driven Oswelda to lead her own merchant company. She crossed her arms. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting. I truly look forward to what you have to show me.”

  Hearing that, Fin nodded, already breathless, set his still-empty bags down, and raced back to the orphanage. He came back lugging a small crate with about a dozen carvings. His most impressive creations had all been given to Izkarius. These ones, barely the size of his fist, were all he had to show. It would have to be enough.

  Oswelda rifled through the crate, examining each and every one. Fin saw her pick up his half-baked attempt at a feather and stare at it for a long time. He mentally winced. It was the worst of the lot.

  “Did you ever have a teacher?” Oswelda asked.

  Fin shook his head. “My matron taught me the basic techniques. Like how to hold a knife, or to carve with the grain. The rest I figured out with experimentation and accidents.”

  The old merchant said nothing and simply continued to feel each groove of each carving with her hands, sweeping each ridge and shadow with her discerning gaze. She went through the crate once, then twice. Fin started to feel tired from staying on his feet. It must have been an hour, yet she had neither dismissed him nor given a verdict.

  She gingerly put the last carving—a tulip mid-bloom—down into the crate, arranging each one tenderly like glass. Oswelda straightened up, looked at Fin with a sort of emotion in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place, then held out her hand, palm facing the sky.

  Fin looked at the palm blankly. She wasn’t asking for money, was she?

  Oswelda took in his reaction, then chuckled. “Here is a free lesson. In the major cities, there’s a popular handshake called the Elder’s Grace, performed between the elderly and the youth when meeting for the first time and as equals. Here’s how you do it.” She held out her palm again. “Form a fist and place it on my palm.”

  Fin did as instructed. She raised her other hand and clasped it over Fin’s fist, her fingers wrapping around his fist. She shook lightly and murmured. “This is so because the youth are to be strong and tenacious, and the elderly are to be accommodating and protective.”

  It was a strange sensation and a bit embarrassing. Usually, Fin would be the one clasping with both hands because it was common respect to the elders, yet here he was with a free and dangling hand as Oswelda, whose hair was whiter than her teeth, had both on his.

  “It is a special gesture. It wouldn’t do for you to be made a fool of when you travel to those locations.”

  Fin blinked. “Travel… where? Cities?”

  Oswelda let go of Fin’s fist and carefully folded her hands before her. Something sharpened in her gaze, and it felt as if her eyes were looking through his present and straight at the phantom of who Fin was meant to be.

  Fin knew what she would say before she opened her mouth.

  “Come with me,” Oswelda said.

  Fin’s entire body felt numb. He couldn’t feel his feet or legs, and wasn’t sure how he was still standing upright. Or maybe he was actually losing balance and simply falling really, really slowly. The world spun.

  “This village is too small for you,” she continued. “Your tools are already limiting you. Join my caravan and come with me to the bigger cities.”

  “You’re not just offering me a job,” Fin realized. The word eluded him. “You’re… you’re…”

  “Sponsoring you. It’s an investment. You ride with us and create some goods on the road for us to sell as compensation. And I will introduce you to a master craftsman in the kingdom’s capital. Rest assured, I have many connections. Enough to have someone of your talent set for life.”

  Fin’s breath hitched. He had dreamt of this—not this exactly, he’d never dared be that specific—but something like it. A path out of the village and into the wide world, one still more myth than reality.

  And now that it was here, the dream felt too big for Fin’s hands.

  He looked down at them, then thought of Matron Floris’s hands. Always busy, always cold, always tender. He thought of the little ones still running barefoot through the orphanage halls, shouting his name.

  He thought of Mister Nel, who he hadn’t seen in years, off adventuring in the world somewhere enjoying the sweltering sun and strolling through lush green fields. But Mister Nel hadn’t been fifteen as Fin was now when he had left the village. He had been twenty—and had already made a reputation for himself as one of the village’s most proficient hunters, feeding entire households throughout the winter with a single catch.

  He thought of Locke and Maryanne and Izkarius. Everything was on the verge of beginning for Fin here. He knew, as the words of refusal gathered at his tongue, that if he left now, he’d be leaving pieces and shadows that he hadn’t finished growing into. Something deep in his soul told Fin that those missing pieces would cripple him.

  So, Fin took a deep breath and met Oswelda’s eyes again. It was somehow the bravest thing he had done in his short life, even braver than provoking a sleeping dragon. “Thank you for the offer,” he said.

  She raised a brow. “I’m not hearing an acceptance.”

  “Because I cannot accept it. I can’t leave.”

  Oswelda simply studied him in silence. “Perhaps I was being impatient,” she finally said after what felt like minutes, and looked up. The sun had risen well into the sky now, but its rays still shined cold on Fin’s cheeks.

  “When you’re older, and I return once more, I hope to hear a different answer,” she murmured and brushed gently past Fin.

  Puzzled, he couldn’t help but blurt after her, “You… I thought you would try to convince me some more.”

  “The greatest skill for a merchant is knowing when a deal is a dead end,” came the reply. “Saves time, saves gold.” And Oswelda walked away, not bothering to look back.