Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

The polar night continues.

The wind outside the longhouse has been howling for countless days. The fire in the hearth burns day and night, casting the shadows of the people inside onto the wall, sometimes long, sometimes short.

But in the south, far, far away from this land shrouded in darkness—

The sun is rising.

As always, the morning light favors Marmorea.

Aesop pushed open the wooden window of his workshop on the second floor of a small alley in the potters' district, and the air, a mixture of sea salt and baked clay, rushed in. Beyond the layers of ochre-red tiled roofs, the volcano known locally as "Mother of Fertility," sharing the city's name, "Marmorea," stood quietly to the north of the city.

The morning sun gilded its conical, snow-capped peaks, and the mountain's massive shadow slowly receded from the west of the city, returning light and warmth to the city. On the hillside lay the most renowned vineyards and olive groves of the Lyxum Empire, patches of dark green and silver-gray stretching along the gentle slope all the way to the aristocratic villa district halfway up the mountain.

Below the mountain lies the true city of Marmorea, "Marble," the jewel of the empire's southern border. The city unfolds along a horseshoe-shaped natural deep-water harbor, its public baths, temples, markets, and theaters, inlaid with white marble and colorful mosaics, gleaming in the sunlight. In the harbor, merchant ships from all the empire's provinces and even further afield in Friesland line the masts, while the docks are piled high with wheat, wine, olive oil from the fertile plains nourished by volcanic ash, and pottery crafted by artisans like Aesop.

Today is a big day—the first day of the three-day "Feast Festival," during which the city will give thanks for the fertility brought by volcanic ash and the warmth bestowed by hot springs with wine, drama, and parades.

Aesop took a deep breath, his gaze falling on the batch of pottery jars fired the previous night. One of them had a hair-thin crack in the glaze, visible only from certain angles. He ran his fingers over the crack, hesitated for a moment, and then placed it in the wooden box next to it marked "defective" instead of the pile destined for the market.

He recalled that many years ago, when he was still an apprentice, he had accompanied his master to the Temple of the Mother of Abundance in the city to repair a batch of pottery used for sacrifices. There, he had the privilege of visiting the temple's treasure gallery and seeing, for the first time, the true masterpieces up close: a celadon crackle-glazed bowl from the far East, a black-painted amphorae hand-painted by the legendary "God of Pottery," Echoes... They stood quietly under the soft light, receiving the visitors' appreciation.

At that moment, a faint, almost laughable thought quietly fell into the heart of young Aesop like a seed: one day, perhaps one of his works could also enter the exhibition hall and stand alongside the masterpieces of the masters...

Aesop shook his head, dismissing the unrealistic daydream. He liked the stability this job offered. Although the pay wasn't high, at least he wouldn't have to work like his father, carrying loads on the docks until he coughed up blood and died. The Empire valued laws and contracts, even for a free artisan like him.

He finished his task for the day. He counted out a few copper coins and decided to go to Granny Lydia's stall in the corner of the market. Her bread was as hard as bricks, but her pickled beans were perfectly seasoned. This small business was an unspoken tradition among the old neighbors in the potters' quarter—Granny Lydia's only son had died at the Wall two years earlier.

The streets were filled with crowds and the hustle and bustle of the celebrations. Besides the aroma of roasting meat, the air was thick with the unusually strong smell of sulfur drifting from the direction of the public baths, all in a warm, oppressive heat. Aesop was used to it; in fact, he felt the smell enhanced the festive atmosphere of the harvest festival—after all, it was a gift from the "Mother of Abundance."

Just down the alley below his building, beyond the bustling market and the misty baths, came the vibrant scene of the port area. There, Gaius Varro was picking up a small pinch of spices leaking from a tear in a burlap sack and bringing it to his nose.

Its aroma is rich and pure; it's top-quality Oriental cinnamon. But his complexion wasn't good.

"Where are the documents?" he asked the tax collector behind him.

"Yes, yes, Centurion." The tax collector hurriedly handed over the wax tablet. "The goods were purchased from 'Dongyue Trading Company.' The customs declaration, certificate of origin, and list of goods... are all in the correct format, and the seal is fine too."

"No problem at all." Gaius put down the spices and dusted off the powder on his hands. He had served on the eastern border of the empire for fifteen years and had seen countless caravans, but none had ever produced documents so perfectly, as perfect as a legion's battle report.

His gaze swept over the men carrying goods. They were dressed in ordinary linen shirts, working diligently, and at first glance, they seemed no different from ordinary dockworkers. But decades of military service had allowed Gaius to keenly detect the discord: these men had unusually long and slender hands and feet, especially their fingers, which seemed exceptionally dexterous when moving sacks.

He approached discreetly, pretending to inspect another pile of crates. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a worker with his back to him; beneath the slightly rolled-up cuffs, his forearms were lean and muscular, and there was a thick callus on the web of his left hand.

He stepped back and reassessed the group. They were taciturn, communicating only with brief gestures and glances, yet with astonishing efficiency.

Where is the owner of the goods?

"The 'Dolphin and Anchor' Hotel has already notified them to come and pay the fine for the tax evasion," the tax collector said cautiously. "Sir, it's actually not a big problem... During the harvest festival, the higher-ups want the atmosphere at the port to be more 'relaxed'."

Gaius understood, of course. His patron, Imperial Elder Marcus Drusus, was currently at his villa outside the city, receiving his mysterious guests from afar and celebrating the discovery of a new silver mine. A minor inconvenience caused by an unexpected customs penalty might disrupt the Elder's "grander vision."

Gaius hesitated for a moment, but then made up his mind. "Check all the trade records of the 'East Moon Trading Company' for the past six months. I need to know where they came from and where the money went."

His subordinates obeyed and left. Gaius gazed at the gradually bustling streets outside the warehouse; the sounds of celebration music were already faintly drifting in.

He felt a surge of irritation.

At the border, the threat is visible—swords and hooves; but here, the threat lies hidden in places unknown to him.

Just a few blocks away, the potter Aesop had just counted out a few copper coins. He was walking toward that quiet corner of the market, to Granny Lydia's stall, which always sold only hard bread and pickles.

Amidst the smile beneath Lydia's wrinkles, Aesop traded his bread and green beans for what he called bread, and as usual, pulled a small bunch of wilted wild chrysanthemums from the broken bucket beside him.

As he turned to leave, he nearly bumped into someone.

The man was standing a few steps away, as if he had just stopped, gazing in the direction of the celebratory parade. Aesop instinctively apologized, but when he looked up, he froze.

The hood of the cloak slipped down slightly, revealing an unusually young, pale face, perhaps a few years younger than Aesop. What startled Aesop most were a pair of icy blue eyes.

The man glanced at him, then pulled up his hood and disappeared into the colorful crowd.

"Weirdo," Aesop muttered.

But more than pondering a pale, eccentric stranger, he was interested in a batch of ochre-red mineral pigments, supposedly from the north, that he had just glimpsed at a roadside stall. If the color was right, perhaps he could try mixing it into a new glaze to create a darker, but more distinctive, red than "Imperial Red."

He squeezed through the crowd and headed towards the stall. That's life. There will always be customers who make you frown, patterns and rules that make you tremble, but there will always be clay you haven't tried yet and glazes you haven't mixed yet. A potter's worries and hopes are all in this cycle of kneading, drawing, and firing.