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The Town Hall stood at the heart of the crossroads, its red brick exterior weathered but sturdy, a silent witness to the city’s daily rhythms. Wagons rolled past its entrance, their wheels crunching over stone, while bakers moved in and out, flour dusting their sleeves and green stains marking their fingers. The air carried the mingling scents of parchment, ink, and grain.

Abigail followed the others through the heavy double doors. Inside, the hall bustled with quiet efficiency—clerks shuffled papers behind wooden counters, workers hoisted sacks of flour onto carts, and conversations blurred into a steady hum of business.

A sudden voice cut through the noise.

“Peigi!”

A woman in an officer’s uniform strode toward them, arms outstretched, a bright smile splitting her face.

Peigi’s expression softened instantly. “Camilla!”

They embraced without hesitation, lingering in the moment as if savoring a familiar warmth. When they finally pulled apart, Camilla shot her a knowing look.

“Well, since you’re already here…” She turned her head and called across the hall. “Augustine, your girlfriend’s here for you!”

A man with short, deep-purple hair glanced up from his desk. His kind eyes settled on Peigi, and a small, easy smile curved his lips. He raised a hand in greeting.

Peigi hesitated just long enough for the twins to exchange grins behind her back before finally lifting her hand, a hint of color creeping onto her cheeks. When she caught Abigail staring, she quickly cleared her throat.

“Ahem. Enough chit-chat. Camilla, could we get some flour?”

“Fufu, of course. Come this way.”

Camilla led them to a side area where sacks of flour were neatly stacked. Suspended from the ceiling were several strange contraptions, each manned by burly-looking officers.

Abigail studied one with curiosity. It was a long metal rod, its surface etched with numbers, tapering slightly toward one end. The whole apparatus dangled from a sturdy hook, swaying faintly in the air.

At the shorter end of the rod, a curved iron hook hung down, waiting to latch onto something. The longer end extended outward, supporting a solid metal weight that could slide back and forth along its length. A series of numbered markings were etched into the rod.

“How many kilos?” Camilla asked.

“Twenty-five. The rest in coins, please.” Peigi gestured to the bundles of brass plates stacked in the cart Gabriel was holding.

“Alright, I’ll count them.” Camilla adjusted her glasses and began tallying the brass plates while one of the officers moved to operate the contraption.

Abigail watched as the officer hooked a heavy sack of flour onto the shorter end. Instantly, the beam tipped, sending the longer end swinging upward. With practiced efficiency, he scooped out small portions of flour, bit by bit, until the rod gradually settled into perfect balance. The counterweight rested comfortably at the 10-kilogram mark.

“Oh, it’s a scale,” Abigail remarked instinctively.

“It’s a steelyard. First time seeing one?” Camilla replied, still counting the brass plates in stacks of five. “Unlike regular scales, steelyards can measure up to 100 kilograms. They’re also a lot sturdier.”

“You can even step on it if you want to check your weight. Want to give it a try?” the male officer offered with a big smile.

“No, thanks.” Abigail shook her head. The officer simply shrugged and resumed weighing the flour.

“I heard Havenna has one the size of a building,” Miguel chimed in.

“It’s used to weigh carriages and wagons before taking them on a dragon ride,” Gabriel added. “But if you’re already riding a dragon, why bother bringing a carriage?”

“Rich people are weird,” Miguel muttered, and the twins exchanged knowing nods.

“Well, we don’t need something that big just to weigh flour,” Camilla chuckled. “Most people here trade in a hundred brass plates at most—that’s five kilograms of flour. Unlike a certain someone who keeps bringing in five hundred plates every day.”

“Ah—ahaha,” Peigi laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of her head.

“Good grief,” Camilla sighed. “Have you talked to Mister Gordon about switching to coins? I know our flour is subsidized, but buying from the market would be more profitable in the long run.”

“I know, but Papa’s on the fence about it. All he cares about is bread, bread, and more bread. So I’m the one stuck handling the accounting and everything else.” This time, Peigi sighed.

“Excuse me.” Abigail took the moment to speak up. “I’ve been meaning to ask—why do people buy bread with brass plates?”

““Because it’s cheap,”” Miguel and Gabriel answered in unison.

“It’s the law, isn’t it?” Peigi added.

“It’s easier to regulate compared to coins,” Camilla said.

“It’s a remnant of the Old Empire,” the male officer chimed in, drawing the group’s attention. “The Old Empire wanted to monitor and control economic growth, and brass plates were their solution.

“People need food to survive, so they buy bread from bakeries. For just one plate, you get a loaf. Meanwhile, bakeries need flour, so we sell it to them at fifty grams per plate—used to be a hundred grams back in the day. In turn, we buy grain and flour from farmers and pay for them in brass plates. That way, the plates circulate as a form of currency. And because they pass through us, we can keep prices stable.”

“Huh.” Gabriel exhaled. “That’s surprisingly generous of the Old Empire. Guess they did something right for once.”

“Well… I wouldn’t go that far.” The officer scratched his head. “There’s a reason we’re trying to move away from brass plates and switch to coins.”

“Why?” Miguel pressed. “It sounds simple enough. Where did it go wrong?”

“Precisely because it’s too simple.” The officer leaned back against a stack of flour sacks, gesturing as he spoke. “For this system to work, the government had to keep buying flour from farmers. But what if the farmers didn’t want to sell? Maybe they thought the prices were too low, or maybe they found better buyers elsewhere. What do you think happened then?”

The twins exchanged looks, trying to come up with an answer. But it was Camilla who spoke first.

“…They were forced to.”

The officer nodded grimly. “Exactly. The Old Empire sent soldiers to ‘convince’ farmers to sell at government prices. And if they refused? Well, they didn’t have much of a choice. Leaving their farms wasn’t an option either, unless they wanted to end up on the gallows. You know what that is called? —Slavery. No chains, no auctions, just laws that bound them to their land. And if you don’t believe me, you can find the records right here in the Town Hall.”

“But… what if there was a bad harvest?” Peigi asked, her concern evident. “Even if they were forced to work, farmers can’t just make crops grow out of nothing. It wouldn’t be their fault, right?”

“Exactly. And it did happen—more than once. You can’t control Mother Nature, after all.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Are you or your parents immigrants?”

“Papa is,” Peigi answered. “He got his citizenship before I was born.”

“Gabriel and I are orphans. Our papers are at the orphanage,” Miguel added. Gabriel gave a small nod in confirmation.

Abigail remained silent.

The officer leaned forward. “The Old Empire is infamous for a lot of things, but one of the worst is its constant invasions. Whenever a famine hit, they’d march their armies into neighboring lands, raiding grain and supplies while leaving the local population to starve. People in those countries had two choices: die or flee. Many tried to escape, and some made their way here, thinking the Old Empire—so rich in stolen food—would be a place where they could survive. Maybe your parents were among them.”

“All of that… because of these plates…” Camilla murmured, turning a brass plate over in her hand. Somehow, it felt much heavier now.

“And that’s not all,” the officer continued. “We sell flour at fifty grams per plate because that’s roughly the amount needed to bake a single bread roll. But you bakers know better than anyone—that’s not always the case, right?”

Gabriel glanced at Miguel, who met his gaze. “I mean… we could always make them smaller and still sell them for one plate.”

“Exactly,” the officer said. “That means bakers can produce more than they’re supposed to, disrupting supply and demand. The Old Empire tried to fix this by regulating the size of bread, but that completely backfired. To get around the restrictions, bakers started adding all sorts of things to bulk up their dough—sawdust, hay, sand… and, in one particularly infamous case, dried excrement—poop.”

“YUCK!” Miguel recoiled. “I’m never buying subsidized bread again!”

“Ours is subsidized, idiot!” Gabriel smacked him on the back of the head.

The officer chuckled. “Relax, that was a long time ago. Nobody does that anymore. The real problem is that people have been using brass plates for so long that the idea of cheap bread is deeply ingrained in their minds. Changing that system isn’t easy—there’s always pushback.”

“Oh, but isn’t there that exchange program?” Camilla asked. “I heard rumors that new coins are being minted, and people can trade in their brass plates at the bank. After that, bakeries won’t be allowed to accept plates anymore.”

“Really? Then I guess we need to switch to coins before it’s too late,” Peigi muttered.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” Camilla agreed. She reached into a pouch and handed over the coins. “Speaking of, here’s your change.”

The male officer finished loading the flour sacks onto the cart and turned to Abigail. “So, does that answer your question?” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he smacked his fist to his palm. “Oh yeah, there’s another thing with brass plates—”

Before he could finish, a commotion erupted near the entrance.

“Ow! Ow! Let me go!” a high-pitched voice cried out.

Everyone turned to see a large, red-faced man dragging a small child—a thin girl with blonde hair and dark-toned skin—by the arm. His grip was tight, his anger unmistakable. “You’ll learn not to mess with adults! You’re lucky I didn’t punish you myself! —Officer! OFFICER!!”

Augustine was the first to respond, hurrying over with a concerned look. “What’s the matter, Mister Rudolf? What did Leah do?”

Rudolf shoved a hand against Augustine’s chest, his green-stained fingers clutching a brass plate. “This brat tried to steal my bread with a counterfeit plate!”

Augustine took the plate, his gaze shifting to Leah, who met his eyes with silent defiance.

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