Rosalia's grandfather worked for a jeweler and, like nearly every gnome in Armentis, called Gnome Town his home. It was a sad little corner at the very edge of Armor, pressed up against the dyer district where the Ainbeck river finally met the Great Ocean. The ocean itself reminded me of the Mediterranean, almost entirely cradled by land, with only two narrow mouths in the south letting the world in. Gnome town felt like a forgotten pocket, tucked away and out of view.
But strangely enough, Gnome town sat right beside the workshops of the kingdom's most celebrated craftsmen, and that was no accident. Nearly every master craftsman had gnomes working for them, though if you ever asked, they'd all deny it. No one wanted to admit that gnomes could match, or even outshine, their own human masters. Pride makes people blind to the hands that build their fortunes.
Yet it was exactly that skill that made life so hard for them. After the great cataclysm, when magic became rare and fear grew like weeds, people needed someone to blame. Gnomes, with their natural affinity to magic and skill that outshone human artisans, became the perfect scapegoats. Nobles and politicians everywhere pointed fingers, and soon gnomes were hunted and herded into places like this. Ours wasn't the only country with a gnome ghetto, which made it feel even more hopeless.
What really made my stomach twist was the hypocrisy of it all. Gnomes were shunned for their magic, but elves and dwarves—who had just as much, if not more—were treated like royalty. Elves got respect and flowery words wherever they went, dwarves had everyone bowing to their banking clans, and yet gnomes were left to scrape by on the outskirts. It was so unfair that it almost hurt to think about. Those thoughts kept circling in my mind as Rosalia and I, with Collin acting as my bodyguard, rattled along in a Marigold company carriage toward Gnome town.
Rika and the others were busy with their own lives, and even though Fiona and Maggie had begged to come along, I couldn't blame their mothers for saying no. The area around Gnome Town wasn't a place for children, no matter how curious they were.
As we rolled down the street, I caught the tired stares of people watching our carriage pass, their hands permanently dyed in all the colors of the rainbow. The further we went, the heavier the air felt, as if the gloom itself was thickening. The river beside us shimmered with streaks of color from all the dyes, beautiful and poisonous at the same time. When we finally reached the wall around Gnome town, it was clear who it was meant to keep in. Anyone could come and go—except the gnomes. They had to show papers and permits, and even the smallest mistake or a single black mark on their record could trap them inside forever. If a crime happened, the guards barely bothered to look for the real culprit if a gnome was nearby. It was always easier to blame them.
Luckily for us, the guard at the gate recognized Rosalia and waved us through without a fuss.
Inside Gnome town, the atmosphere somehow felt even heavier than the rest of the slums. The houses were squat and stacked, but most looked like they might fall apart in the next strong wind. I silently hoped Rosalia's grandfather lived on the ground floor. The doors were half my height, and everything was made for gnome-kind. Stepping out of the carriage, I felt awkward and oversized—maybe this is how Titus feels all the time.
No sooner had I stepped out than a pack of gnome children started toward me. But the moment they saw Rosalia, they changed course and swarmed her instead. They wore patched-up rags, but none of them looked hungry or unwashed. For a second, it almost felt like they were playing dress-up, pretending to be poor for a day.
"Rosalia!" "Rosalia!" chanted the kids ecstatically.
I always knew Rosalia was one of the biggest employers of gnomes in the city, but I hadn't realized just how much she meant to these kids. To them, she must have seemed like a hero—maybe even a lifeline, especially if she was the reason their parents had work at all.
“Okay, okay, enough, everyone! I'm not alone today. I brought a friend, so be nice to her.”
A couple of the braver kids who'd tried to sneak up on me scurried away, caught in the act. Even Collin looked a bit sheepish, as if he couldn't believe he'd missed them until now.
Just as I was wondering why the kids were still hanging around, Rosalia pulled out a box of cookies from a secret spot in the carriage and handed them out. The children devoured them on the spot, then scattered in every direction, as if carried off by the wind.
“What was that?”
“Ah, well, the guards control how much food and money comes in, but unless we are openly flaunting it, they can't be bothered and usually let it pass. We are doing alright for ourselves, much better than the rest of the slums, and most of the shops like mine pay us well; we are just not allowed to show it. But that can change quickly. Right now, they mostly have their eyes on Halflings, so we gnomes were able to catch a break for a change.”
So that was it—the kids looked healthy because they were, and the rags were just for show. It wasn't just the children, either. Adults peered out from behind curtains, watching us with wary eyes, but none of them came closer. Their distrust hung in the air, thick and silent.
Rosalia didn't pay them any mind and led us straight to her home, weaving through the narrow streets of Gnome town.
Rosalia's place was tiny and humble, nothing like her grand atelier in the city. Honestly, I doubted there was a single room in that whole building as cramped as this apartment. I had to duck just to get through the door, and Collin, with all his armor, decided to stay outside and keep watch.
Inside, the place was almost bare—just two chairs, a table, an empty bookshelf, and a lumpy old carpet that hid a secret basement below, if my mana sense was right. Two little beds sat against the wall, one of them taken up by a snoring lump. Rosalia marched over and gave the lump a good shake.
“Argh, who dares?” complains the lump with an old, raspy voice, revealing a bald head as well as two beady eyes hidden between massive grey bushy eyebrows.
"It's me, grandpa,” said Rosalia, a bit exasperated.
“Ah, my good-for-nothing granddaughter has nothing better to do than to torment this frail old man.”
“I'm not alone, grandfather.”
"What? Has the day finally come? Oh, if your parents, blessed be their souls, could still be here to see this!" The old gnome shot upright with surprising speed for someone his age, his eyes suddenly bright and wide. "Rosalia, you've finally brought someone! Ha! I told everyone you weren't destined to be a hermit forever!" He fumbled for his glasses in his excitement, nearly knocking them off the table. "Tell the young lad to come closer; my eyes aren't what they used to be." He stretched out one of his wrinkly, old, shaking hands and beckoned me to come forward, beaming with anticipation.
“Grandpa, she's a woman.”
The old gnome did a double take, wondering if he had heard right. Eventually, he put on his thick glasses that made his eyes three times larger and exclaimed, “Ah! I'm deeply sorry, young miss, you are obviously much too beautiful to be a man; it was just my poor eyes playing a trick on me. So please don't give up on my granddaughter because of my mistake.” After apologizing to me, who could barely hold back her laughter, he addressed his granddaughter Rosalia, who was still standing next to him, completely stunned. “I don't care as long as you find someone. You have been alone for so long, dear, and I worry that if I'm gone, you will be all alone.”
"Grandpa! This is not whatever you think it is. She is one of my customers and friends,” said Rosalia before whispering into his ear, so that I couldn't hear “and married.”
“Alright, alright. Sorry, I got my hopes up. Now why are you two disturbing my afternoon nap?”
Half an hour later, the old man was sitting up on the edge of the bed, still a little dazed by everything we'd told him. Then he pulled Rosalia into a wide, proud hug.
“You did it! I knew it wasn't a fluke, I knew it!”
“What did you know?”
“Years ago, I crafted a necklace that ended up being an artifact just like you did now.”
“I made an artifact?”
“Yes. Old tales say gnomes once made magical artifacts at random. What would normally take years to make reliably could be made by a gnome in a matter of weeks. It was impossible to predict or repeat.”
That was when I finally spoke up. "And this dress—does it just glow, or is there more to it?"
I needed to know. I had no desire to find out later that it could actually burst into flames or become see-through.
“I don't know. The artifact I made was a moon necklace that allowed the wearer to change their appearance. One had to place a lock of hair from the desired person inside, and then the person wearing it would appear to be them. It changed the voice and appearance, but couldn't mimic height or proportions, and only worked for two hours before it had to be recharged with a mana stone.”
“Do you know what happened to it?” I asked curiously.
“Sadly not. I only remember that the woman who commissioned and bought it had black hair but nothing more than that.”