Price of Life - A Tale About Wealth vs Life
A Mage Hunter Short Story
Death is our greatest adversary, a force we will inevitably lose to one day. Many of you may have witnessed the grave injustice of a premature death, caused by either man, nature, or inner demons. If that injustice can be undone, what price would you be willing to pay?
That’s a theme we shall explore in this short story.
Hello loyal readers! Thank you again for tuning in. Today I got a new short story about a wealthy tradesman and his journey of self discovery and growth as he tries to bring back his daughter from death.
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Price of Life
Torren amassed a mountain of wealth as a tradesman in the port city of Aurenfall, known throughout the continent as the hub of the world. Thousands of merchants sail the seas to this city, offering a wide variety of treasures to trade and sell – and Torren capitalized on this bountiful opportunity. With keen wisdom mapping the safest trade routes throughout even the most dangerous parts of the continent, he brought these goods to all in the towns, cities, and allies of the St. Celestine Kingdom with speed and efficiency.
One autumn, though, would prove to be a great calamity upon the Vaugn family.
Torren enlisted his wife and their eight-year-old daughter on a trek to the great capital of Eskanore, a two-month journey that has been planned for years. With the aid of adventurers experienced with the land, this route has been mapped out as thoroughly as possible. However, the Skyveil Mountains are as unpredictable as the storm elementals that inhabit them.
Despite having a small, yet formidable posse of specialists, nothing prepared them for the earth-shattering storm.
Halfway through the mountains, the winds punched the caravan like an iron fist, bringing them all to an abrupt halt as a torrent rained upon them. The horses screeched and wailed; the driver struggled to quell their fear.
“We have to find cover now!” One of the adventurers shouted through the deafening winds.
Haze, rain, and hail made the eyes sore. Not even five feet could be spared visibility. Torren grabbed someone’s hand, and another, who he recognized was his wife. As the adventurers lead them to a cave, the harsh crackling of bark echoed above the flood of winds.
“Look out!” someone shouted. Torren was suddenly knocked forward. The body that shoved him to the ground quickly offered a hand to get him back up. The merchant looked back, seeing only the old tree blocking his sights of his wife and child.
He panicked, shouting their names, yet his voice was deafened by the crackle of lightning. With fatherly instincts pushing him, Torren rushed back with the intent to hop over the tree, but the man who saved him pulled him aside.
“We’ll find them! Just get into cover!”
The storm ruled for an excruciating ten minutes. Half of his caravan, including the horses and the carriage, were safely tucked into the mountain side. A mage incanted, drying off their clothes and saving them from hypothermia. The father tapped his foot, aching to sprint out into the storm as precious seconds left them. “Gods… please be okay…” he prayed.
The storm died down and three of them ventured to search for their remaining party as one stayed with the horses. The path looked almost unrecognizable, with fallen trees and mudslides soiling the road. Even a section of the cliffside cracked apart. The booms of thunder loomed over them, unsure whether another blitz storm would return – they had to look fast.
Their search for survivors led them down toward a flooded ravine. Some of the remaining adventurers were seen standing around something. “There you guys are,” the chain-clad warrior called, “is anyone hurt?”
They turned, all with gloom in their eyes. “We’re fine,” a hunter responded, “but…” His head signaled downward as they cleared way. Two bodies were revealed. One was a halfling bombardier, one of the adventurers hired for this journey.
Torren panicked when he saw the other – his daughter, still as a stone. “No… no no no no no!” he shoved the adventurers aside as he hurried over. He fell onto his knees before her and pressed his fingers on the daughter’s neck, desperate for a pulse. “Come on… wake up...! Please!” he pleaded as he shook her by the shoulders, then lightly smacking her cheeks. Desperation flooded his heart. “Cleric help damn it!”
It was no use.
Demoralized, they pressed on, carrying the two bodies. The wife was still missing, despite their search efforts. It wouldn’t be another month before they reached Eskanore, an unbearable month of brooding and sorrow. The mage and the cleric used their combined magics to preserve the bodies throughout the journey, preventing the scent of decay, and to provide them a proper burial.
The city mourns with Torren; Eskanore’s bells toll for days, their chimes infused with sorrowful notes that cross the skies. At the Grand Temple of Yule, the goddess of light hosts the funeral, joined by a small mix of relatives, business partners, and even the adventurers he hired. With visceral grief, he clutched onto his daughter’s embroidered shawl as she rested in the casket, its faint lavender scent a fading echo of her laughter. His soul cracks further as he helplessly watched her casket lower into the grave.
Following the ceremony, the bishop, a gaunt figure with eyes like polished quartz, approaches him. “My friend, we empathize with your suffering. It is never easy for a father to lose their child.” He planted a hand on his shoulder. “It is without saying that I wish you to know this. Yule offers a path to restore the fallen from unjust death,” he whispered.
“I can bring her back?” Torren’s watery eyes filled with hope as he glanced up at him.
“Yes. But it demands a heavy toll many aren’t ready to pay: all that you possess.” He paused as he watched the father’s eyes shift, “Every coin. Every treasure. Every deed.” Torren’s head tilted down in numbness. “Yule values life above all, and it is this reason why her ritual requires such a demanding sacrifice.” How could someone who worked valiantly even fathom surrendering an empire he built over decades?
For months, Torren has drowned in his sorrow through a sea of spiced wine and opulent dens of Eskanore. Desperate to cling on to his family, he even hired an illusionist to see this wife and child smile once again. His wealth, once a source of pride and security, became a tether to his pain. Each golden candelabrum, each rare gem, every masterwork painting in his second home in this capital city was a cruel reminder of what he cannot afford to buy back. By midwinter, his depressive negligence squandered a third of his fortune on lavish distractions – parties, entertainment, and lots of booze, rendering his coin purse bleeding as his heart.
One frigid winter night, Torren collapsed in an alley behind a tavern, his fine cloak soaked in dirtied snow. “Sir, are you okay?” He was greeted by a homeless man, weathered in the eyes and his unkempt beard, yet with a kind, concerning heart. Offering a share of his fireplace, he introduced his dog, a scruffy mix breed with the same gentle heart as his master. “My. You don’t look like you belong on the streets, sir.”
Torren was silent for a moment, reluctant to answer in a semi-sober voice, “A lot has happened over the last couple months.” In exchange for a seat at the hearth, the merchant offered to share his sorrowful story. He went on, “… She wanted to see Eskanore so badly. And I painstakingly planned this route for years! This should have never happened,” he clenched his fists in frustration.
“I’m sorry to hear all that, friend. I know it must be tough to go through something like that.” Sharing condolences, he then told his own tale of how he lost his home to a fire, and how he lost his carpentry job due to poor health, both misfortunes were enough to land him on the cold streets. “…I lost everything, but even then, I still had Groose here,” he pat his head. “Then, one night a group of thugs approached and threatened my life. Groose stuck it out and chased them away, but he took a fatal wound. Poor boy died in my lap that night.
“Without anywhere to turn to, I took him to the Church of Light. I was never a religious man, but I figured, what else do I have to lose? Hmph. Turned out it was just the clothes off my back when they did the resurrection ritual.” The dog whimpered a little as his owner scratched is ear, “Groose is the last thing meaningful to me that I have. Thinking back, I probably would have given up my home for him.” Through his words, a seed was planted. As they rested, the merchant watched as the pup cuddled by the man under a blanket. A profound debate stirred within. His eyes wandered onto the snow-caked stones, the open alleyway, and the stars above. He was far from his Eskanore home, yet found a strange level of content lying under the open skies. He thought to himself, maybe losing everything isn’t the worst thing to happen.
The man returned to the Grand Temple that morning. He found the same bishop who worked at the funeral, kneeling before him with a trembling voice, agreeing to the ritual. However, the first obstacle was a hefty tithe, one unique to each individual who chose this path. For Torren, his was ten thousand ounces of gold. The bishop then instructed him of a six-month-long fast, far exceeding the limits of most mortals. With strong faith, he guaranteed the light of Yule will protect him. Hesitation flooded his spirit once again, now facing head-on the consequences of his decision. He clutched at a green amulet, a keepsake of his daughter. “I’ll do it.”
The temple’s altar, a slab of luminescent crystal upon marble pillars, consumed Torren’s gold in a blaze of white flames, fuming the scent of summer meadows. Priests anoint him with holy oil, its warmth sinking into his skin. He was then adorned in a white ceremonial robe, blessed by the congregation. The robe, woven with threads of light, will guide the mournful merchant through his grueling trial.
The father returned to his manor, now eerily quiet and empty after selling off most of the fortune stored. Weakness afflicted him with each passing day of his fast, sustained by nothing more than the memories of his wife and daughter, and by the faith of Yule. Rumors quickly spread about him thanks to the rare sight of his robes, especially among the wealthy who knew him by name. While much of the opulent called him a fool for forsaking his fortune, the common folk saw inspiration.
The first few weeks taxed his resolve as the worldly desires of meat and booze tugged at his heart. He nearly forgot his purpose of this fast on numerous occasions. However, the amulet he held onto was a deep reminder of her smile – a smile he yearned to see again.
Then, for a time, his body felt a strange level of renewal, as if conquering a big hurdle. As his body was cleansed of sustenance, his mind cleared too – it was almost serene. Every day he would visit her grave, praying for her return and for the safety of his missing beloved.
Then, the pangs kicked in again, this time with brutality. His vision clouded as his stomach churned. He heard things he shouldn’t have heard, and his muscles atrophied throughout the remaining months of his trial, rendering him alike that of a ghoul. One night, convinced he was going to starve to death, he saw a platinum light shine over him, and with it, a figure resembling an angel. Before he knew it, he felt a hug from someone, someone small.
At the breaking dawn of summer, the priests, clad in robes mirroring Torren’s, led him on foot to the grave. The procession drew onlookers: merchants, adventurers, even news hawks scribbling on parchment, writing a story that would certainly spread back to Aurenfall. At the gravesite, the casket was raised with delicacy. Priests burned incense and anointed the coffin with their holy oils, coating it in a shimmer of liquid gold. Torren’s heart pounded, with a fleeting feeling of anxiety and doubt, but the hugging, comforting and cleansing robes he wore reminded him to believe in Yule.
The final ritual began at high noon following an escort back to the temple. The merchant stood before the altar, with the casket at its center. Following a séance and a word of scripture, the priests chanted psalms, their voices resonating with the temple’s inscriptions, which blazed with blinding chromatic light. Torren then felt a warmth all around him as the robe ignited in white flames. Somehow, he knew not to rush to panic. The fire did not cause any pain, instead only left him bare and vulnerable to the congregation. To the onlookers remaining outside, they saw trails of platinum light reach high into the skies, outshining the sun. They originated from his manor all the way in Aurenfall, his house in Eskanore, his docked ships, his vaults – all burnt away in surges of divine fire. The casket then glowed, then erupted in the same white flames of Yule.
When the blinding light faded, all that remained was the body of the eight-year-old, lying as whole and unblemished on a silk sheet. Torren froze as his eyes watered. His body quaked in a thousand emotions. Her eyes then fluttered open. “Daddy?” she whispered. Torren stepped forward and collapsed, pressing her head into his shoulder, sobbing as they embraced. Her warmth, her breath, and her voice erased months of despair.
The priests brought a new robe for the naked man as the temple fell silent. The onlookers remained awestruck by Yule’s miracle, so rarely seen.
The two left the temple with nothing but each other, and the donated outfits by the church. This kingdom now felt alien without his wealth, no longer able to freely walk into any establishment and pay any price for any desire. Instead, it was the generosity of others he had to rely on – a notion that twisted his prideful stomach, refusing to fall into feelings of emasculation by contacting his relatives or business partners.
Though, they were offered a room above a tavern when an owner heard about the ritual. Torren almost refused at first, but looking at his daughter he had no choice. While this first act of kindness helped initially, struggles immediately began after. Torren failed to find work, and worries quickly settled in how he was going to support his daughter. Fears swelled in him, as if it was all a futile effort, that they shall both starve to death regardless, and unable to fully overcome his pride. However, the community of Eskanore rallied. One day, at the doorstep, a small line of generous folk offered bread, meat, gold, and even clothing for both of them. Bolstered by their kindness, and with his strengthened purpose to support his daughter, he vowed to rebuild his trading empire.
Months pass since their reunion, and the two walked the streets of Eskanore. Utilizing his knowledge, and thanks to the support of the community, his wealth was steadily growing, though far from the lavish lifestyle his family once enjoyed. A familiar barking of a dog caused Torren to pause. Turning, he spotted the same homeless man sitting at the corner of an alleyway. “Well I’ll be,” the stranger grunted, standing up as the aches of his back gnawed at him. Groose’s tail wagged, approaching the father first before walking a lap around the girl. “Fancy seeing you here again, sir.” The dog started licking the girls face, causing a giggling fit. “Groose, come! Don’t need to be slobbering over the fine folks here.”
Torren smiled, “This is Heirune. She is… my daughter.” Even after the ritual, he still has disbelief in this miracle.
“A pretty name for a pretty girl. Pleasure to meet you, miss Heirune,” he waved with a friendly grin.
“Hiiii!” she smiled and returned the hand gesture.
Torren observed him in a silent frown. He thought about this kind-hearted stranger, stuck on the streets much longer than he was, both before and even after he even reached the great city. An idea then popped into his head. “Hey, would you be interested in some work?”
The homeless man stood puzzled, but returned a reluctant smirk, “My, that would be mighty fine, sir. Thought I don’t know what use you’d have of someone like me.”
“Are you good at counting?”
“I suppose…”
“Then you’re hired.” The man stood in confusion. “I need someone to help me keep track of inventory. No lifting or anything, say for a quill and maybe some papers. The father extended a hand out.
The destitute man looked away for a second, skeptical of this life changing offer. Yet, in the end his hand met the merchant’s, forging a new partnership.
Thank so so kindly for reading! Let us know what you think of this story in the comments below!