The rain fell with a gentle patter, the droplets making hushed sounds as they landed among the stalks of corn that flanked the road. The clouds had descended during the night, dumping their payload with a surprising ferocity. Sam’s question about rain was decisively answered. The puddles on the road were overflowing as they ran down the berm into fields below, leaving small channels in their wake.

  Arther had taken pity on him and lent him an old cloak. The thick, oiled fabric repelled the worst of the morning chill. Sam had also purchased another tunic from the Smith; the faded grey fabric was noticeably softer than the one he’d been wearing when he’d arrived on the Ring. It fit snugly around his newly developed muscles, the material stretching to accommodate the new wearer.

  The sun was just beginning to creep around the Spire, the first rays of light catching the towers that rose from the top of the mesa. Their varied profiles lent to the eclectic nature of the city. Sam could imagine them being built up over thousands of years—each stone laid by a new generation.

  Arther and Sam sat hunched on the driver’s bench. Beside them, the fields continued to roll by, only broken by the occasional stream or farmhouse. The cart creaked as it moved, the old wooden joints protesting every movement. Isla seemed to be enjoying the weather, her tail swishing back and forth as she clomped through the mud.

  Sam was thankful for the ride, aware that the journey ahead was likely to be far less comfortable. The weight in his gut that had persisted since he'd first opened his eyes seemed to grow heavier the closer they moved to the city. The knowledge that he was about to go off on his own dragged him down like an anchor.

  The last day had been, well, not good, but at least less chaotic than the ones before it. A tiny slice of normalcy in a sea of turmoil. More than anything, he was going to miss the company. They’d discussed it over stew the night before, and the schedule that Arther had laid out made it clear that as the weeks went on, he’d need to spend more and more time in the wild.

  He’d make frequent trips back to the forge over the first few weeks to purchase new skills and armour. After that, however…he’d need to spend weeks at a time camping rough, pushing his way farther up the cliffs. There, the monsters would get tougher, but the rewards would also increase.

  They’d passed a few Warriors on the road, but no one had given them a second glance. Sam had gotten his first good look at one of the bear-like creatures, which Arther identified as a Dremin. They were supposedly great scholars, but were prone to fits of violence if provoked.

  Sam stored that away for a rainy day—well, a different rainy day. Apparently, the Arbiter controlled the weather, but praying to them was about as effective as praying to a rock. They didn't pick sides; instead, they pushed the assembled Warriors to what was most entertaining.

  Sam clenched his teeth, looking up at the cliffs that soared overhead. All of this: all the time, energy, and resources, poured into entertaining a few “divine” beings. Learning that a higher power had created his species was one thing; learning that those beings were also assholes was something else.

  He sighed and checked his newly revamped heads-up display. Discovering that he could customize his HUD had been a revelation, despite the oddity of it being hardwired directly into his brain. The tafla had a robust series of menus, including scaling the screen itself. He’d also altered which numbers were permanently displayed and had blessedly removed the timer from the feed. He'd found himself checking it compulsively as the hours went on, and he knew it was only adding to his anxiety.

  Instead, he’d replaced it with the counter showing his spira, as well as a tracker for any quests he’d receive. He’d continue to tweak it as time went on, but he already felt better with the change. Now, rather than a clock ticking down towards his certain demise, he had a tangible goal to work towards. It would also allow him to track how much spira each monster kill awarded him, helping him to further refine his farming strategy.

  Arther shifted beside him, the reins an afterthought in his calloused grip. “So, looks like the first order of business will be to get you a proper cloak and travelling kit. There's a merchant just off the central market who owes me a favour, I'm sure I'll be able to get a few spira knocked off for ya’.”

  “Thanks,” Sam replied, wondering how he was ever going to pay back the old Warden. The man had been oddly quiet since they'd set out, the bluster of the previous day greatly diminished. Sam wondered if he still felt nervous about this sort of thing, or if, after hundreds of years, it had all become mundane.

  The traffic on the road increased as they moved into Homst, but it was significantly less than on the day of the opening ceremony. Arther was able to park the cart at a stable just inside the main gate, and they made the rest of the way to the market on foot. Sam was glad for the well-seasoned leather of his boots as he splashed through ankle-high puddles of muddy water. The shop adjoined the square that served as the city’s primary commercial district. The store was neat as a pin, the plaster walls freshly painted in bright green and cyan, standing out among the drab stone buildings that surrounded it. The sign beside the door marked it as a general store, but the displays in the windows proudly showcased a large variety of weapons and shields.

  The merchant in question was human, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a face set in a perpetual scowl. She wore a flowing black blouse, fastened tight at the wrists. Silver jewelry adorned her neck and fingers, and they flashed as she moved, reflecting the shop’s bright electrical lights. The walls themselves were stacked high with goods. From swords to spices, the merchant didn't seem to discriminate when it came to wares. Sam could see several sets of full plate armour, which might have been Arther’s work, though they appeared to be sized for a sylvan, or maybe just a particularly petite human.

  The woman's face darkened as they entered, her brows coming together to form a unified front. “No, no you don't. We agreed that Eeno would deliver the shipments, and you were to stay well away from my shop.”

  “It's nice to see you too, Evelyn,” Arther mumbled, shoulders tensing as he approached the counter. “Aye, we did agree, but I'm not here to sell, I'm here to buy.”

  Evelyn considered that for a moment, eyes drifting over to Sam, and the grey tunic peaking out from beneath his cloak. “I thought you were done with all that. That's the one promise I never expected you to break.” Her voice dripped with venom, and Sam got the impression he was stepping into the middle of a very long argument.

  “Situation changed, Sam here is a rare case. Managed to secure himself a [Deific Mark] on the very first night. Killed twenty dire-rats with his bare hands.”

  “Did he now…” The woman gave him her full attention for the first time since he’d entered the shop. Sam could feel her eyes boring into him, trying to suppress a shiver as her aura pressed against him. “Hm, and I suppose you want me to outfit him at a discount?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Yeah, call it a favour to an old friend.”

  At that, the woman bristled, a half-dozen emotions flashing across her face. She stood hunched over the counter for a long moment, clearly biting back a retort. She gave Sam another look before composing herself, bustling out from behind the counter to begin pulling things off shelves, stacking them in a pile on the floor. Sam gave Arther a glance, but all he caught was a sly smile.

  Before long, she had assembled a veritable tower of gear, and Sam wondered how he was going to carry it all before he remembered that storage wouldn’t be an issue. Back home, ultralight camping was extremely popular. He had friends who would calculate their bag weight almost to the gram. He grinned, imagining their jealousy knowing he could store as much as he wanted without having to worry about carrying it.

  “How many days are you planning to go without a resupply?” She asked over her shoulder, comparing two different canteens.

  “Uh, five at the most to start. By the end, I need to be able to stay out there almost indefinitely.” She nodded and selected the larger of the two vessels.

  “Don’t worry about water purification; there are no microbes here that could contend with your enhanced constitution.” She gave him another once over and pulled a few different cloaks from a rack, eventually tossing one onto the pile. Her skirts swished as she bustled around the shop, clearly in her element as she selected the final few items.

  In the end, she settled on a large tarp, as well as a length of study rope, and a collection of different lengths of cord. On top of that, she set a groundsheet and a thick wool blanket. Next came the cooking supplies, which included a small grill, as well as a utilitarian pot made of dull metal. In that she tossed a toothbrush, as well as what he assumed was toothpaste and soap. The deodorant he immediately recognized, the Old Spice logo looking very out of place among the rustic gear. On top of that, she added a few rolls of toilet paper, but they didn’t appear to be of any human variety. Finally, she added a hand shovel, as well as a canteen wrapped in the thick cloak. It had a large hood and was dyed a green so dark it was almost black.

  She pressed the gem set into the counter, bringing up the total. It was just over three hundred spira, and with a soft sigh, she added her discount, bringing it down to a more palatable two-hundred-and-fifty. “This should get you started, but if there is anything else you think you’ll need, take a look around.”

  Sam took the hint and began working his way through the cluttered shelves, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and whatever awkward conversation was about to occur. He wasn't sure what exactly their history was, but he thought he could probably guess. Relationships were hard enough at the best of times; he couldn't imagine one that lasted for hundreds of years.

  Hushed, but angry tones followed him through the shop as he gently maneuvered around stacks of goods. The store focused on outfitting warriors, but also supplied feed and other essentials to local farmers and artisans. A large burlap sack caught his eye, and he gave it a prod, a broad smile forming as it shifted with a muted clacking.

  While his new body needed less sleep, he still found his morning routine severely lacking. He gave the bag a sniff, confirming his theory as to its contents. He hoisted it over his shoulder and made his way back to the counter, trying to make as much noise as possible as he went.

  The conversation ended abruptly as he approached. Evelyn’s face was blotchy, and even Arther looked shaken. The two composed themselves, and Sam did his best to appear as if he didn't notice.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he asked the shopkeeper.

  “If you think it's coffee, then yes. One of the crops the gods so generously seeded on multiple worlds. That's a Dalith strain, I believe, we grow it here on the Ring.”

  “How much for some of this? I doubt I can afford the whole bag. I'd also need a grinder, and I'm not sure how you make it here.” Years of working as a barista came back in full force as Sam contemplated his potential brewing options.

  “I have a machine in the back, I can grind some as you need it. And usually folks just throw the grounds in a cup with boiling water, but…” she pursed her lips and flitted between the shelves, opening boxes and rummaging through bins.

  “Aha!” The triumphant shout came from a box near the door. She returned, holding a French press of nearly the same model as the one Sam used at home. “This should do the trick.”

  Sam had to fight the urge to let out a whoop. “That it will. Sure beats picking coffee grounds out of my teeth.” The addition of the coffee and the press brought his total up to two hundred and seventy-five spira.

  Sam looked at Arther, who nodded, and he accepted the purchase, watching with dismay as his currency dropped to almost nothing, from almost nine thousand spira to under a hundred in under twenty-four hours. He wasn't sure what the Earth equivalent was, but he had a feeling it was probably the most money he’d ever spent in a day. Well, maybe except that one time he'd had to pay tuition and rent at the same time, that had nearly left him in tears.

  While his parents had both been doctors, he'd been expected to work since he was a teenager. Both his mother and father had experienced living in poverty at various points in their lives, and he'd grown up appreciating the value of a dollar. Spending his entire reserve was daunting, but he knew the strategy was sound.

  Evelyn took the coffee into the back, and the sound of a grinder could be heard revving through the shop. Sam took the opportunity to try to get some context from Arther.

  “So what was that all about? I know it's none of my business, but she really seems to dislike you.”

  Arther winced, “She’s not without her reasons. She became a champion a few cycles after I did, and we ran in the same circles. She wanted something I wasn't ready to give her, and then by the time I was, she wasn't interested. We tried to make it work a few times over the cycles, it just—didn’t click.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “More than a little. Things are different here; expectations are different. In the end, we agreed we were better as business partners, and so I supply her with goods to resell here.”

  Sam doubted how much agreement was happening, but didn't push the issue. “Why did you mention the [Deific Mark]? I figured that was something we’d want to keep to ourselves.”

  Arther shrugged, adjusting the hood of his cloak. “I needed to convince her you were worth her time. She's picky with who she outfits, and clearly, my word is as good as mud these days. She won't betray your secret; she takes her clients’ privacy very seriously. If you need someone to smuggle you in something from the worlds, she's the one you come to.”

  Sam thought about that for a moment, “So if she can smuggle things into the rings, does that mean she can get people off?”

  Arther gave him a cold look. “No. And don't ask her. Bribing one of The Arbiter’s scouts to bring back socks is one thing; trying to get a Warrior off the Spire, during a War, is out of the question. Do you really think Zetos would let you escape so easily? You've made an enemy, Sam. That grudge will need to be settled one way or another.”

  Sam was surprised by the force of the reply. Clearly, others had tried it in the past, and he wasn't keen to learn why Arther was so adamant against it.

  “Alright, alright, I was just asking.” He stepped up to the pile and began pulling items into his inventory. He’d practiced with his knife a decent amount, and the process was becoming second nature.

  Evelyn returned from the back and handed him a brown paper bag. The aroma of freshly ground coffee permeated the room, and Sam thought he’d never smelled anything quite so good.

  “Well, best of luck, young Warrior. May Attena’s wisdom guide you.” She glanced over at Arther, “As much as this man may be an idiot about some things, he knows his craft, and he knows this War. You'd do well to heed his advice.”

  Sam let out a small laugh, “I plan to. Though if he makes me level six skills at once again, I may have to object.”

  Evelyn’s eyes went wide, and Arther let out a loud cough, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and pushing him towards the door. “Yes, well, time is of the essence after all, so we’d best be leaving. Thank you, Evelyn, a pleasure as always.” The two stepped into the street, the rain having slowed to a swirling mist. Sam wasn't sure what to make of the departure, but figured it wasn't worth pursuing.

  “What’s next, then?” He asked, trying to get his bearings in the fog.

  “Next?” Arther said with a grin. “Next we eat.”