The village elder's face creased into a smile, the wrinkles softening as he visibly relaxed at Ronan's promise. He exhaled gently, the sound barely audible beneath the rustling of leaves outside the cottage. While he harbored no grand expectations regarding the quantity of food Ronan might procure, the offer itself spoke volumes; it confirmed the elder's judgment. Ordinary humans wouldn't demonstrate such initiative; their assistance would be limited to minor tasks – tasks utterly inconsequential to the elves. In the face of their immense lifespans, any temporary difficulty would eventually resolve itself. Except, perhaps, for one thing: money.
It was always money. Trade, currency, value—concepts the elves had observed but never truly mastered. Though they had watched empires rise and fall, coins minted and replaced, economies collapsing and reforming, none of it had ever seemed relevant to a people whose time moved slowly and whose needs were so few. But now, after five long years of strained supply lines and rising prices, even the ageless had begun to feel time press its cold hand upon their shoulders.
To demonstrate elven generosity, the elder hurried back to his dwelling. Despite his age, his movements were swift, his robes brushing along the stone path with the light whisper of silk. Within moments, he returned, holding a carefully wrapped bundle in both hands. The cloth was a soft, pale blue, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the light. With care, he unwrapped the bundle and presented it to Ronan—a book. A magic book, its cover marked with glyphs that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles.
He presented it to Ronan, implying that if he needed money, he could sell it. As a spell from the mythical era, it should fetch a considerable sum.
Ronan was puzzled. He looked at the book, then at the elder, his expression conveying his bewilderment. Wasn't this money? Why would the elves…
The book was clearly valuable. The binding alone could have paid for a year's worth of food in a human city. It exuded power—he could feel it in the air, like the tension before a storm. And yet, the elder treated it as if it were nothing more than a trinket passed down from a forgotten relative. Ronan's lips parted slightly, about to ask the obvious question.
Before Ronan could voice it, the elder sighed, offering an explanation. "We elves are not adept at trade; we're not sensitive to monetary value. We once sold a spell worth ten thousand gold coins for only five hundred. Since then, we've abandoned selling magic for profit. The market value of magic is simply too unpredictable."
He spoke with a mixture of regret and bemusement, as if recalling a youthful misadventure rather than a catastrophic misjudgment. The tone of his voice suggested he had repeated this explanation more than once in his long life, perhaps to skeptical travelers or frustrated younger elves.
The elder's gaze was serious as he continued. "This is one of my personal treasures. It was created three thousand years ago, in the early days of the mythical era, by a great mage of our people." His tone was grave. "Mr. Ronan, please accept this. The future of our village rests on your shoulders. As a human, you should be able to maximize this book's value."
There was no ceremony, no dramatic flourish, just a quiet, humble offering from someone who truly believed in Ronan's potential—not because of some prophecy or divine sign, but because Ronan had offered help without being asked.
The weight of his words made Ronan feel slightly uncomfortable. He took the book, nodding. "No need for such weighty pronouncements, Elder. Please rest assured. As a three-thousand-year-old artifact, many mages will be interested. Of course, if possible, it's best not to sell it. It's one of your village's treasures, isn't it? Losing it would be a significant loss."
He turned the book over in his hands, the leather warm beneath his fingers. Despite its age, it showed no signs of wear. The preservation magic must have been powerful. Or perhaps it simply hadn't aged—like everything else the elves touched, it seemed immune to time.
Three thousand years… an immense span of time. In Ronan's mind, considering real-world history, it was an artifact from the Shang or Zhou dynasties; even relics from the Spring and Autumn period paled in comparison. While this world lacked those specific eras, the weight of history remained.
He imagined it being written while human tribes were still learning to forge iron, long before anyone on Earth had thought to measure time in centuries. And now, here it was, casually passed to him like an old notebook. The dissonance was dizzying.
But as Ronan pondered this, the elder waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, it's just something from three thousand years ago. Historically, it's only slightly older than I am; it's not particularly precious to me. It's only because it's associated with legendary magic that I offered it. And this isn't the original three-thousand-year-old book; it's a copy. I have two or three more at home; I could make more copies… but I haven't, to maintain the unspoken agreement between mages. Don't worry about it."
Ronan fell silent. A three-thousand-year-old artifact dismissed as worthless… This was the elven worldview? He was astounded. Now he understood why a ten-thousand-gold-coin spell had sold for five hundred. To someone who could live for a hundred years, something from a hundred and ten years ago would be insignificant; it's just something new from ten years ago, commonplace in their youth. But to a normal human, a hundred and ten years is a distant past; seeing such an item would be rare.
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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