Arrival

The carriage stopped abruptly.

He was startled and looked ahead. A soldier from the town stood in front of them, his hand on the hilt of his sword while his serious gaze scrutinized the coachman.

"Trading papers," he demanded curtly.

For months, the citizens had been forbidden to travel freely. The princes feared that their people would flee to foreign lands and had issued strict rules. In reality, however, many soldiers only half-heartedly adhered to them - especially when it came to smaller groups such as merchants. They hoped to earn some extra money from them.

"Well, it's always the same old story..." muttered the coachman.

The soldiers seemed to have little patience. One of them took a step closer, his voice sharp.

"Hurry up, old man! We've got better things to do than bother with you!"

"Take it easy, I'm already looking..." muttered the coachman tensely as he rummaged in his pockets. 

A small queue had already formed behind the carriage. Other traders waited impatiently while the soldiers routinely checked the papers.

The coachman sighed softly.

"Always the same crap..."

The morning chill crept under the skin of the young man in the back of the carriage. He pulled the blanket up to his nose, leaving only his tired eyes visible as he scrutinized the soldiers. 

They barely paid him any attention. It was not uncommon for merchants to take travelers from the surrounding villages.

"Excuse me. . ." one of the soldiers finally said with an expressionless face, ". . .but there's not enough money. The town lord raised the fees last week."

The coachman blinked in disbelief.

"What?" he growled. "Who's supposed to have that much money? You'll probably take the last shirt off your back!"

The soldiers remained unimpressed.

They scowled and explained to him the bad situation the town was in. And that the money was needed to pay off the installments to the count without having to send more sons to the north. The coachman fell silent, squinting at the young one in the back of his carriage. 

"All right ... I'll pay the amount then," he grumbled, handing over the money reluctantly.

"Is the situation in the town really that bad?" the young man asked in a worried voice.

The coachman glanced at him before replying with a grin: "Listen... you're still young. Don't think too much about such things."

After handing over the trade papers and the money, the soldier eyed them with a sullen expression. He sighed in annoyance and called over to his comrade: "Let the old man through!" 

Without further delay, the heavy gate opened with a creaking sound.

At last they were allowed through.

Behind the gate stretched a wide main street, lined with trees, lanterns and colorful flags fluttering gently in the wind.

"Just a few more minutes to the actual city wall..." said the coachman in a calm tone, without letting go of the reins.

After a while, they finally saw the city walls, which slowly opened up as they left the forest through which the main road led.

He lifted his head. The wind carried the smell of smoke with it, while old flags fluttered in the air. They stood proudly beside the dark columns of smoke that rose above the red roofs of the otherwise snow-white city - a city that had told of the glory of its people for generations.

At the edge of the city, white towers rose into the sky, their stony gazes watchful over the surrounding countryside. The soldiers stood guard there - motionless as statues.

Their thin, field-grey uniforms, unmistakable in the surrounding lands, barely moved in the wind. And yet their presence was unmistakable. 

As they passed through the large gate that protected the city, a whole new world opened up before them. They stepped into a vast square where pure chaos reigned. People swarmed in all directions, voices mingled in an incomprehensible confusion. Loud shouts, excited cries - languages they had never heard before rang through the air. It was as if the city was a single living organism that never stood still.

Speechless, he watched the crowds on the streets. Then the coachman looked back at him.

"Boy, you need to get off first."

He looked at him questioningly.

"I still have to go to the authorities and sort some things out, so I'm going in a different direction for now. Maybe I'll see you again later."

He nodded at him. Without asking further questions, he jumped from the carriage onto the cobbled street. Behind him, the vehicle slowly started moving again.

He raised his hand to say goodbye, but the coachman had already disappeared with his gaze forward.

And suddenly he was alone.

There was hustle and bustle around him. Merchants loudly advertised their wares, buyers haggled for the best prices. Voices, laughter, the clatter of hooves and the rumble of carts - the city was alive.

He strolled leisurely through the narrow streets of the city, his hands in his pockets, his eyes curiously turned upwards. The colorful hustle and bustle around him - the merchants, the babble of voices, the smell of spices and roasted meat - captivated him anew every time. So much life in such a small space. In his village? Unthinkable. There, everyday life rippled along at a leisurely pace, like a quiet stream. The hustle and bustle here was like a raging torrent - loud, wild, shrill and unpredictable.

For one thing, he liked it.

There was something appealing about this city. Everywhere you looked you discovered something new - strange goods on improvised stalls, winding paths that led to hidden corners and an energy that flowed through the streets like a current.

And at the same time... he was reluctant.

The people here seemed rushed, always on the go. No smiles, no pausing - just haste, elbows and tense faces. Nobody really looked at each other. Everything seemed to be driven by an invisible force, like cogs in a machine that never stopped.

He felt out of place.

That's why his stay in the city was never long.

After a while, he finally reached his destination - a small store hidden on the edge of the busy market street. It was not a place that immediately caught the eye. The painted wooden panel above the door was marked by the weather. And yet that was precisely the reason for his visit.

As he pushed open the door, a soft, familiar creaking sound was heard. A dense, almost heavy scent hit him - a mixture of dried herbs, resinous roots and strange essences that wavered somewhere between pleasant and mystical. The store was small, overflowing with shelves that reached up to the ceiling. Bundles, vials, cards and notes were everywhere. The walls were adorned with meticulously labeled illustrations of plants and animals - each leaf, each claw annotated as if it were part of a living encyclopedia.

He stopped at the entrance. The store was full - customers crowded around the sales counter, voices murmured in confusion while hands reached for small cans and rolls of paper. 

So he waited. Observed. Taking in the smell.

Then he spotted him. 

Behind the counter stood an older man with tangled, gray hair and glasses that balanced dangerously close to the tip of his nose. The sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up and he held a fresh bundle of green leaves in his hands as if they were a treasure. Despite the busy scene, he seemed perfectly calm - almost serene. 

And then he looked up.

As the store slowly emptied, he finally stepped closer. For a brief moment, a spark of recognition flitted across his face, then a warm, heartfelt smile spread across his lips - the genuine smile of an old friend.

"Ah, look at that! A rare visitor!" the old man exclaimed with feigned surprise.

"Trehben," said the newcomer quietly. 

The man behind the counter nodded. "It's been a long time."

Trehben - Once a young man from the same home as him, but who had moved to the city many years ago. He had taken over the store from his late wife, who had once founded it. Her name was still emblazoned above the door in artfully curved lettering: Aria's Herbs.

He stepped closer to the counter as the last visitors gradually took their leave.

"I assume you want to pick up your order?" Trehben asked with a friendly smile. His facial features, marked by all the stress, moved with every single word.

"Yes... I suppose it's there," he replied hesitantly. 

"But of course, Nihn!" the old man suddenly laughed and winked mischievously.

His eyebrow twitched. His hands clenched slightly into fists. "You shouldn't call me that anymore! I'm not a little kid anymore, my name is Nidal!"

"Of course, of course. Forgive me, my boy... Nidal, of course." Trehben raised both hands placatingly, a mischievous grin on his lips that made it clear: he would probably never completely get rid of the old habit. He used to call him that all the time.

With a creak - as always - he pulled open the bottom drawer of his counter. It jammed, squeaked, literally resisted the movement.

"This drawer..." Nidal muttered with an annoyed sigh.

Trehben laughed out loud. "My boy, do you think I have time for that? And to be honest, I don't really feel like it."

He took out a neatly rolled-up scroll and handed it to him across the counter. Nidal took it, didn't even open it, but immediately fastened it securely to his belt - a map of the surrounding mountains that he had ordered a few weeks ago.

"But tell me," Trehben said with a curious look, "what do you want with a map like that anyway?"

Nidal did not answer directly. His gaze was evasive, his voice calm, almost casual: "Maybe hiking. Let's see."

Without further questions, he handed the old man the money. Trehben accepted it with a brief nod - the conversation was over for him. He turned his attention to the next waiting customer. It was the same as always, friendly and direct. And yet distant.

Outside, he looked around the streets. The alleyways seemed even more crowded than before. People were streaming in all directions as if they had no end, as if they were never tired.