The man eyed you with a wary sort of suspicion, his posture half-leaning, half-tense as he rested an elbow on the rim of his cart.

  His face was sun-leathered and sharp around the jaw, and though he wore no guild badge or trader’s mark, the mess of bundled goods in the back of the cart made his profession plain enough.

  You stood with him at the crossroads, where the old trail forked toward Bell’s Hollow. Behind you, wagons creaked past under the weight of crates and travelers. Some were merchants. Some pilgrims. Most just looked lost.

  People walked too. Heads down, cloaks drawn tight against the late wind, murmuring prayers to whatever god they thought ruled this stretch of land. The road felt too full for this hour. Too loud.

  The man’s eyes dropped to the items laid out on the ground. He clicked his tongue once, then crouched slightly, resting a hand on his knee as he looked them over.

  “Let’s see now…” he said, voice dry. “One steel sword, not exactly polished. A bent knife with kitchen grease still on the hilt. Jar of beans, one of ’em gold, though I can’t say why. A twig dressed up like a relic. Half a clay idol. Some torn-up letter. And a scrap with an address on it.”

  The man sniffed and leaned back, hands resting on his hips.

  “Altogether,” he continued, “I’d say that fetches you… one golden frayel.”

  You blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s generous,” he replied flatly. “More generous than most around here, anyway. You’re lucky I’ve got a taste for oddities.”

  You glanced over your shoulder. Vael stood just behind you, watching the road more than the trade.

  “Make the sale,” he said. “You need to travel light. And we’ll need the coin if we want to make it in time for the dance.”

  You hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

  Without another word, Vael stepped forward and unclipped one of the pouches from his belt. The leather was dark with dried blood at the drawstring. He tossed it toward the cart.

  “That covers the coats too,” he added. “His and mine.”

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  The merchant caught the pouch midair, more reflex than grace, then pulled the strings loose and peered inside.

  His eyebrows nearly twitched. A few copper shims. Several frayels, all stamped with the Hollowmark sun. He said nothing, just turned toward the cart and dug beneath a thick bundle of folded cloth.

  Two coats came out—one a deep gray-black with reinforced seams and a tall collar, the other a softer brown lined with fur at the shoulders. Cleaner than what you wore. Newer. Less soaked in the past.

  You stripped off your old one. It crumpled at your feet, stiff with sweat and dust, the lining already flaking at the seams. Vael did the same, letting his drop beside yours.

  The new coat settled on your shoulders with surprising weight. You were fastening the middle clasp when something caught your eye: a map, nailed to the inner canopy of the cart. It was sun-faded, curled at the corners, with red chalk markings circling towns and branching roads. You stepped closer.

  “The map,” you said, nodding at it. “Throw that in.”

  The merchant turned his head sharply. “That map’s worth more than your coats and your graveyard kit combined,” he said. There was steel in his voice now. “It’s not for sale.”

  Vael stepped forward, slow and unbothered. He didn’t reach for a weapon. Just moved closer. Close enough to remind the man that coin didn’t buy safety.

  “It is now,” he said.

  The merchant didn’t reply at first. He thumbed through the coins again, weighing decisions behind narrowed eyes.

  “Pilgrims’ve been asking for that all week,” he muttered. “Folk from Wetherlow, Wynwhelm Abbey... Dustmere too. Say something’s rising in the Hollow. Drawing them by the thousands, like moths to a flame.”

  Vael tilted his head. “In that case, they won’t need a map by the time they get there, will they?”

  The man muttered something under his breath, then reached up and tore the map from its pin. He folded it once, then slapped it against your chest with more force than needed. “Fine. Take it.”

  “Much obliged,” you said, voice quiet as you slid the map into the lining of your coat.

  The merchant turned away without another word. He lifted your discarded coat by the shoulders and held it up to the light.

  You gave him a passing glance.

  “I wouldn’t wear that too long,” you muttered, not really expecting an answer. “Bad luck in the sleeves.”

  He didn’t even look up.

  “Yes, yes,” he said distractedly. “We’ll see.”

  You turned and walked. Vael followed.

  The road ahead was still crowded. More wagons. More dust.

  The sun had dropped just low enough to set everything aglow. It made the wind feel colder somehow, and the shadows long and sharp.

  Vael adjusted the collar of his coat as he caught up beside you. His eyes were scanning the road.

  “How far’s Barrow Lane from here?” you asked.

  “Far enough,” he said. “We won’t reach it before sundown.”

  He nodded toward the town in the distance, where rooftops and chimney smoke began to press against the darkening sky.

  “We’ll have to cut through the main square first. There’s an old inn near the bell tower. We’ll stop there. Rest a bit. Plan our next move.”

  He looked up, his gaze lingering on the bruised sky.

  “It’s been a long day,” he murmured. “I think we’ve earned something that doesn’t stink of blood and ash.”

  You nodded once, pulled your new coat tighter, and kept walking.

  The sky was already starting to bleed.