Hundreds of merchants traveled daily along the Duhan Road – the main artery connecting Halimor with the Coastlands. Caravans loaded with coffee, silk, and always-fresh fruits and vegetables had to cross the stone bridge and pass through a sparse village outside the city walls before entering the city. The clatter of horses and the murmur of people had long become background noise to the locals.

  But today... today it wasn't just merchants.

  Today, people from all across the land were heading to Halimor with the same goal – to enjoy the best food and drink the Southern Lands had to offer. The annual celebration of the Unification rotated each year between capital cities, and this year, the honor belonged to the Duhani. And if anyone knew how to throw an unforgettable event – it was them.

  This year, the Unification Day coincided with the Duhan holiday: the Day of Smoke. According to legend, on this day, a Duhanin – whose name was lost to time – brought the tobacco plant to the world, which would later become the symbol of his people. That nameless hero, now known only as the First Smoke, is celebrated like a saint.

  Because of all this, even before dawn, Halimor was bustling, preparing to welcome guests from all the united nations.

  Maro, however, was not among the excited crowd. Festivals didn’t interest him, and he cared even less for guests from afar.

  Still, that morning he was awakened by the strong scent of tobacco and honey.

  "Great... the Zemiyans are here," he muttered, rolling his eyes so hard he worried they might get stuck that way. Tradition said the pipe should be packed the night before – and of course, it was waiting for him on the nightstand, neatly filled. Before he could even wipe the sleep from his eyes, thick smoke had already filled the room.

  From his window, he could see the road stretching down to the city, where the walls were draped with the flags of all nations. Within hours, the rulers would arrive – including the most revered of them all: King Drenar of the Great Plain.

  After finishing his pipe, Maro climbed down the ladder from the attic, his modest room, and into the kitchen – his favorite place.

  The ground floor was a single room: an old fireplace, two worn armchairs, a wooden table covered with clay and copper dishes, and dried onions hanging from a beam overhead. In the far corner stood a basin for washing, and behind it – a pantry with clean clothes and food supplies. The layout wasn’t ideal, but Maro didn’t mind. Most of his days were spent in the city, following events and writing them in his journal, which he later turned into stories and news to sell for a living.

  He quickly grabbed a loaf of bread and spread strawberry jam on it – his favorite quick meal.

  "I've been eating nothing but this jam lately..." he muttered, scratching his beard while staring at the rows of jars through the half-open pantry door. "At this rate, I won’t have any left for winter."

  He shrugged, already resigned to the idea. He wasn’t one for drama – if there was food, great; if not – he’d manage. He could always show up at a relative's house around lunchtime or tag along with a friend at a tavern. Someone would surely feed him.

  Once, returning home from the woods, he found a bear in his kitchen. Apparently, he'd forgotten to shut the door, and the uninvited guest had helped itself to all the food. Maro had chased it through the forest until he collapsed from exhaustion, then dropped to his knees and wept where no one could see him.

  For months after, he lived off others' hospitality but repaid each favor in his own way.

  Since then, he always checks the doors twice before leaving. One thing was certain: One day, he would find that bear. That was his personal vow. And he meant to keep it.

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  As he finished breakfast and plotted his revenge, footsteps broke his thoughts – growing louder.

  He had a talent for interpreting movement. He could tell whether someone was approaching or leaving, passing by or lingering. Often, just from the rhythm, he could guess not only the person’s gender, but who it was.

  But these steps were unfamiliar. Uneven. The left foot dragged slightly behind the right.

  A silhouette briefly appeared by the small window facing the lake – opposite the side where the steps had come from. He jumped up, knocking over his chair, and rushed to the window.

  Before he could peek, the steps came again – this time at the front door. Moving away.

  He acted quickly. Swinging the door open, he saw a figure disappearing into the crowd. Long white hair. A white cloak.

  Damn Snoveni. Always poking around where they shouldn’t be.

  He spat on the ground and raised a fist in silent threat. No one in the crowd noticed.

  He never liked them. Like most Duhani.

  Ask any Duhanin why they disliked the Snoveni, and they’d give the same answer – because of Talmor. For decades, the two nations fought over the city, which changed hands due to its strategic location. At the height of their power, the Snoveni declared it their capital. Later, the Duhani drove them out and claimed it.

  After the Unification, the city was officially handed to the Coastlands. On paper, the issue was settled.

  But the resentment ran deeper than history.

  They were opposites.

  The Duhani loved drink, music, laughter. The Snoveni were quiet, restrained, focused on peace and knowledge. Duhani mockingly called them "northern corpses" – for their snow-white skin and even paler hair.

  And then there were their rituals – potions, ointments, strange customs no one else understood. It made others uneasy.

  Maro donned his coat and packed his essentials: pipe, journal, pen, and inkwell. He wrapped a piece of cheese and sausage in a cloth for the road.

  He stood by the road, watching the river of people heading to the city, waiting patiently for a chance to join.

  A Zemiyan cart rolled by, recognizable by its flag and its short, hairy coachman, hauling barrels of wine.

  That’s my ride, he thought, climbing onto the cart like a spider and settling beside a barrel.

  Since I’m here, might as well help myself, he added, pulling out a wooden cup and scooping wine from an open barrel.

  "Mmm, smooth... Whatever else they are, they sure know how to make wine," he muttered, licking his lips.

  The ride to the city took about fifteen minutes, and by then, Maro was on his fourth cup.

  Keep this up and I’ll end up passed out in some haystack, he thought with a laugh, grabbing his stomach.

  Inside Halimor, colored smoke already filled the air – a festive welcome. Smoke performances were something all Duhani looked forward to, young and old.

  As the cart passed through the city gates, Maro leapt down, almost stepping into horse dung.

  "Close one," he exhaled.

  Wouldn’t want to get dirty before the day even starts.

  The streets were already packed, people naturally clustering by nation. Only the merchants knew no borders, their stalls stretching from the central square to the church.

  The square itself was still closed off, guarded. In the afternoon, all the rulers would gather there to address the crowd.

  Maro lit his pipe and strolled past the stalls, one hand behind his back. He wasn’t planning to spend any money, but if something caught his eye, he might part with a few drenars.

  Each nation displayed its signature goods. Zemiyans ruled the wine trade, Coastlanders sold pearls, silk, and seafood, while the Ravnians offered the finest tools, weapons, and silverware.

  But one small stand caught Maro’s eye. A Snoven girl manned it – pale-skinned, dressed in white, as expected. But her hair had a single black strand.

  The table held an array of ointments.

  Drawn to her, Maro approached without taking his eyes off her.

  "Hello, kind sir," she greeted, her voice like a song. "May I interest you in healing ointments from Snovorija? Just tell me your ailment, and I’ll have the cure."

  She tilted her head and smiled warmly.

  Maro picked up a small jar and sniffed it. It smelled like pickled fish and fermented fruit. He winced and quickly put it back.

  The girl laughed. "That one’s for greasing drawbridge chains. Not meant to smell nice."

  Maro chuckled nervously. Did I just embarrass myself in front of a Snoven girl?, he thought.

  "I’m not looking for ointments, thanks," he said. "I’m more curious about your hair."

  He paused. "I’ve never seen anyone from Snovorija with any color besides white."

  She ran her hand through her hair. "It’s always been like this. I never got an explanation."

  "Didn’t you ask your parents? The elders? Maybe someone knows of others like you?"

  He bombarded her with questions until she looked uncomfortable.

  "Sorry," he said, seeing her unease. "I didn’t mean to scare you. I write stories about strange things... and I think a tale about a Snoven girl with black hair would be fascinating."

  He looked sincere, and she relaxed, smiling.

  "Maybe later, after I finish work, we could meet... and I’ll tell you everything I know?"

  "Deal. I’m holding you to it. I’m Maro." He offered his hand.

  "Elira. Pleased to meet you."