The magic trinket markets in the "Moonlight" district of the city of Bloody Coin were the only thing painted in timid shades of blue. The rest of the city boasted a fiery red, very appropriate for the character of the people who lived there permanently: all joy, savagery, and plenty of death. The merchant population took refuge in this district, carrying heavy loads from various human artisan cities, where their goods were bought with great haste by a civilization that lived for comfort and the envy of hoarders. This particular city was the proud home of the "New High Elves"—though others called them that in secret. They called themselves the Blood Elves.
Aside from the genetic traits typical of their race, you could see them walking the streets in excessively elegant clothing—fabrics woven on specific dates with fibers from extinct or nearly extinct animals. They traveled without modesty. Despite being quite wealthy, they spent almost everything on magical scrolls. Regardless of what they had been in the past—more of a nuisance to the ancient archmages—they were now a source of pure, fresh magic. They were the cachet of the "pure" elf race. You could see them walking through these bazaars, examining every magical item, from a rust-resistant spoon to pianos and organs capable of stimulating certain emotional waves that only their race possessed. But they had a passion for elven scrolls… only they could activate them—activated by speaking the runes printed on them. The magic stored within could be recharged inside a magical field a few times before being affected—though they never regained their original power—and some were very cheap yet deadly.
It was not unusual for merchants and customers to step aside when the Blood Elves arrived. Despite having no innate magical power of their own, they always carried weapons. It was known that they killed people purely for amusement. But they were rich. Billions of their silver and gold coins circulated on the days when foreign markets opened in every city across the continent. Here, however, they were more aggressive. They were the power behind the government. The Redcap mage who supplied magic to this city was too engrossed in acquiring weapons to attack the Redcap of the neighboring city, Wild Eel. Nothing unusual among mages who thought only of stealing each other's secrets. Besides, they lacked the courage to face those who had once enslaved humanity.
A vendor selling items salvaged from the Dark Forests hung a sign offering an authentic mana map—long since disappeared. These scrolls had been crafted from the weave of some of the greatest sorcerers of all time. It was a map tattooed on human skin with a few drops of blood treated so that it never dried. In the presence of a considerable amount of magic, a portion of the blood would orient itself on the map, leaving a bruise and a dark spot pointing toward the source. The drawback was that modern maps, crafted from the skins of various beings that had mysteriously disappeared in the city at the hands of this cruel and rigid race, also worked but required magic to activate and deactivate. They could be used in any city, but all pointed to the Dark Forests. You could not erase them once you arrived there, and subsequent destinations were impossible to reach because the map redrew itself with each activation, making it hard to get anywhere. But the ancient ones, made from the skin of the dead—these maps were magical in themselves. They required nothing more than for their instructions to be read in their native language.
Since morning, a pair of spies had been watching the shop, intimidating any adventurers who approached. When everyone began packing up their businesses, they arrived. Red suited them well in their garments—pale skins adorned with exquisite fine jewelry, wide cloaks that floated over their bodies, perhaps concealing the most important reason why they ruled in Bloody Coin.
The vendor received them with some apprehension. It was well known that these Blood Elves could not stand contact with inferior beings. Being a dwarf, he felt helpless seeing their sheathed weapons, not to mention the rumors about what had happened to those vendors who sold fake goods to them. They demanded the item with a gesture. He handed it over, protected by a finely crafted silver box. They took out the map, and when the box was confirmed to contain no magic, it was thrown to the ground, where many other merchants fought over such an excellent piece of jewelry—easily worth no less than five hundred silver pieces. The map was unfolded and inspected. They brought out a tahumanometer, a device invented by a harmless Whitecap who had been commissioned to create something that could measure the magical field of objects. The reading was slightly low, drawing a grunt from their mouths. Suspicion tinged their words as they asked about the origin of the piece.
"When I was digging in the Obsidian Mountains," the dwarf said, "I made the mistake of letting my lamp run out of magic halfway through my search. Fearing attacks from hobgoblins or the giant insects that swarm there, I ran like a madman. Suddenly, I saw a small light at the end of the highest tunnel. There, protected by this silver box—" he glanced with some sadness at the troll slaves belonging to one of the wealthier merchants, who were used to claim items from disputes, "—I found the map. I unfolded it, hoping the faint light in the cave would help me find my way." The Blood Elves were beginning to look bored, so he hurried to finish the story. "The thing is, I opened it, and a red dot marked a faint line pointing in one direction. I followed it and reached the mine entrance, where a Whitecap apprentice was recharging the lantern batteries. When I arrived, I checked the map again and saw that the cave lines had disappeared, and now it showed the small mining town where I live."
The dwarf stopped when he saw the Blood Elves' expressions—hard eyes gleaming with greed. Despite being a vendor, he was prudent enough to set a reasonable price of ten gold coins. "Are you interested?" he asked.
The Blood Elves turned the map over several times, rolled it up, and tucked it into the folds of their leader's cloak. "Dwarf," they said, "the price you ask is an insult to the Blood Elves. However, in light of the fact that it appears authentic, we have decided to pay you. Which merchant has wronged you?"
"What?" So great was his surprise that he answered honestly. "The human Ferwood always sells merchandise without being sure of its quality. I had several customers who went to him, only to discover that the safety they thought they had bought failed them, and in many cases, it brought them death."
The merchants drew back in horror from the vendor in question. He was already desperately searching through his bags. At the moment the Blood Elf pulled out one of the scrolls—the most worn-looking one—the merchant held up a small piece of paper and a small box. Both shouted at once: the Blood Elf's "Burn!" mingled with the human's "Play!" Instantly, the box obeyed the command and repeated the only word it had stored—which activated the human's scroll: "Protect!"
Everyone watched in astonishment. The flame emitted by the Blood Elf's scroll struck a shield of light. The expressions of the vendors were ones of alarm. They knew the Blood Elves used weak spells to kill those who displeased them, and now—one of their intended victims was resisting!
The Blood Elves' expressions were filled with hatred. Not because he was not dead, but because someone had recorded the elven voice of one of their kind. A human had committed the worst sin: he had wanted to be more than he was.
Uttering a string of words in Elvish, one of the apprentices pulled out a sealed scroll, broke the seal, and cast what was written there: Divine Wrath. The sky darkened as the merchant's smile twisted into a grimace like that of a fish. A beam of light flooded the plaza. When it faded, all that remained was a smudge of dust where a merchant had once stood.
The leader of the Blood Elves frowned. With a swift motion, he snatched the scroll from his assistant. After unleashing magic of that magnitude, the scroll slowly lost the brilliance that had flooded it during the casting. The fabric wrinkled and darkened at the edges. "Damn," the Blood Elf thought. "It was a gift when he joined the guild. I should not have used it in this case. It was far too costly, and now it is damaged. Even if recharged, we will not be able to use its full power. I should have come alone. The spell I cast would have broken that mediocre shield in less than a minute, and everyone would have watched the one deserving of elven punishment burn. Oh well."
He turned toward the dwarf, who felt like a man who had cheerfully crawled into a dragon's den, stolen an egg, and cooked it at the entrance—only to discover the mother and the fact that she was not pleased with what he had done. He took a step back, but the Blood Elf's attention was elsewhere.
"Merchants," the Blood Elf said, addressing the countless eyes watching from the corners of their stalls. "This dwarf asked for justice, and we have granted it. The human's belongings and merchandise now belong to him as payment for the fraud and offenses against his person. If we discover that any of it has gone missing, you will never sell here again. Remember: you may have magic or gadgets, but we are far more powerful, and no trick will save you from our wrath."
He turned on his heel and walked away with a firm stride. The merchants could only look at the dwarf with hatred. In that instant, he knew his luck had run out. He gathered all the goods—including the human's; after all, it was payment for the scroll—and fled at the first hour of dusk. Days later, he was found in a ditch. Merchants were vengeful people, and they had money that few societies could match. Their revenge went unnoticed by the Blood Elves. Outside of their society, nothing else mattered.