The Routes and the Merchants

The morning cold had sharpened again.The wind carried that dry, metallic taste that always signaled winter's approach.The village looked the same as the days before — the scent of fresh bread, the crackling firewood, voices trading goods at the square — yet everything carried an unspoken urgency.

I had spent the morning helping my mother sort roots for storage.The task was simple, methodical — washing, cutting, separating.

While my hands repeated the motions, my mind observed:

If we could control the drying with steady heat and airflow, perhaps we'd lose less…But not now. This is not the time.

On my way to the square, I spotted Garin, one of the boys who sometimes helped the merchant on his visits.

— Good morning, Garin.

— Morning, Torren!They say the merchant might arrive before the first snow this year.

— That would be good — I replied. — There's always something missing right when winter comes.

Garin simply shrugged with the carefree air of someone who had not yet carried many winters on his back.

Soon, I reached the old oak where, as had become almost routine, Yorn waited with the Rekal board carefully arranged.Beside him, Marta quietly set a small tray on the rough table.

— Torren — Yorn greeted me with his usual calm smile — I see the cold hasn't defeated your punctuality.

— Good morning, Master Yorn. Good morning, Lady Marta.

Marta smiled gently.

— I brought some cheese and dried fruit. One shouldn't face battles on an empty stomach.

I nodded, accepting the small meal.The board was ready.The conversation would follow the movement of the pieces.

We played in silence for a few minutes, testing the early moves.Rekal had its rhythm — and within it, our talks found space.

— I've been wondering — I began, after moving a Count — how do so many things reach us from outside?The tools, the salt, the fabrics… everything travels so far to reach our village.

Yorn nodded slowly.

— The world feels small while we walk through the square, Torren, but beyond the fields, roads weave like a great web.Merchants walk them like patient spiders, carrying what people need — or desire.

— Do they travel alone?

— Some. But those carrying true wealth travel in caravans, under protection.Guilds and unseen agreements draw their paths.And often, it is not swords but signatures that offer true safety.

I frowned.

— Guilds?

— Groups of merchants, artisans, carriers…— He gently moved a piece. — …setting rules among themselves.Not always fair, but they control the flow.Some guilds are well-managed.Others… prefer to play in the shadows.

I stared at the board.

— So these routes are… like Rekal's corridors?Open lines where risk and profit meet?

Yorn let out a faint smile.

— A precise comparison.When routes stay too open, the emptiness attracts predators — bandits, rivals, even restless nobles.

—

We advanced a little further into the game.

— And how do they pay for all this? Don't they trade like we do here?

— In small villages, barter still breathes, yes.But the farther you go, the louder metal speaks.They use the Drim — copper, silver, gold.Each coin carries its own weight and influence.

I thought for a moment.

— But… the one with more gold rules?

Yorn paused his move, his gaze drifting almost beyond the board.

— Not always, Torren.Many believe that — and many fall believing it.Gold is only a piece.The ones who control the routes, the contracts, the alliances…...those who whisper in the shadows...They shape the true game.

I remained silent, absorbing.

The game is not made of pieces alone.It's made of the hands that move them — and of eyes that are not always seen.

We played for a while longer as the sun threatened to retreat earlier than the day before.

At the end, as we gathered the pieces, Marta brought a warm cup of tea.

— The winter's rushing in fast this year — she remarked, watching the season, not the politics.

— It always arrives — Yorn said softly.— As does the next move on the board.

I smiled quietly, accepting the tea.

On my way home, the cold bit harder.Heavy clouds danced on the distant horizon.

Winter waits for no one.

And neither does the world.