The Sunday morning markets buzzed with their usual energy, voices mingling with the clatter of carts and the scent of fresh bread. A crisp chill lingered in the air, but it was the pleasant kind—enough to wake you up without biting too deep.

Among the stalls, one in particular caught your eye: a weapons stand gleaming with polished steel and intricate craftsmanship. Every blade and bow was arranged with care, the handiwork unmistakable. This was Ethari’s stall—the Silvergrove’s finest blacksmith.

Yet, instead of his usual calm precision, Ethari’s attention was elsewhere. A small whirlwind of a girl, no more than ten, darted between the displays, narrowly avoiding disaster at every turn. Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she darted past him, and you recognized her instantly—Rayla, his daughter.