"Yes, you can pass. But be careful, there is a gang war happening in the slums. Just stay clear of the slums. Is that understood?"

  The guard didn't look at us when he said it. His eyes were on the street beyond the gate, where two more men stood with spears angled outward instead of resting easy.

  The old man held Lina's gaze until she gave the smallest nod. Only then did he turn back.

  "Thank you. We're grateful for the warning," he said evenly.

  The guard stepped aside. The gates creaked open.

  We rolled into Thornhold.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. This is my spawn point. And apparently the fan had already been hit.

  My mess? I hoped not.

  No one would recognize me. Not like this. Different body. Different face. Different life.

  Still… I didn't know what this body had done before I crawled into it. Sometimes even my own memories felt like fog — real enough to hurt, too distant to trust.

  "Hey, Rot. Why so serious?" Lina leaned forward from the bench. "I bet you've seen towns hundreds of times bigger than this humble hold, haven't you?"

  I kept my eyes on the road.

  "No way. Too small?"

  "Way too small," I said. "Though it might just be my imagination."

  I hesitated, then lowered my voice. "Will you keep something for me?"

  Lina tilted her head. "Between only us?"

  She glanced at her father — quick, measuring — then leaned closer.

  "The other world," I said quietly. "That part stays between us."

  She studied my face, searching for something.

  Then she smiled, softer this time.

  "All right," she said. "Our secret."

  Lina kept firing questions at me the whole way, half curiosity, half excitement. I answered what I could and deflected the rest.

  By the time we reached the inn, my throat was dry.

  'The Golden Sheaf' sat just off the main road: one long tavern hall and three attached lodging houses, all timber and worn stone. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the yard was crowded with carts and tethered animals. Travelers came and went in a steady stream. Loud, alive. Comfortably so.

  We checked in without trouble — two small rooms — and were led straight into the tavern. The air inside was thick with stew, bread, and woodsmoke. For a while, we ate in silence.

  When the plates were mostly empty, the old man wiped his hands on a cloth and spoke.

  "After we're done here, we go to the granary and settle the lord's dues. There should be grain left." His eyes moved to Lina. "You'll plan the sale. Organize it."

  Lina straightened.

  "We buy what the farm needs and leave," he continued. "No wandering. You heard the guard — the city isn't stable."

  His gaze shifted to me. "Rot, you stay with her."

  He leaned back. "I want to be on the road again as soon as possible. Preferably tomorrow."

  This was exactly what I wanted to hear. The hamlet was a dead end — but a safe one. And I had learned, the hard way, that security mattered more than possibility.

  I winked at Lina. "We can do this."

  I pumped a fist and muttered a restrained, "Whoop."

  Lina giggled and copied the gesture.

  The old man leaned back, watching us. Waiting.

  I took that as my cue.

  "So, Lina. How do we handle this?"

  She hesitated only briefly. "We compare prices first. More than one merchant. Otherwise we don't know what it's worth."

  Good. "And?"

  "And we make sure of the quality. If it's graded well, we have leverage."

  The old man nodded once. "It'll be graded when we settle the lord's dues."

  "Then that's simple," Lina said, confidence growing as she spoke. "We pay the due, get the official grade, then find the best offer."

  Simple.

  The planning dragged on after that. Grain. Rates. Margins. Storage. The kind of talk that kills revolutions. In the end, I probably said too much. Every answer only bred more questions. Within the same hour, we drove to the granary yard.

  The line crawled forward, sack by sack. Every cart in the valley seemed to be waiting its turn. Officials in grey tabards moved along the rows like undertakers, weighing, marking, subtracting.

  Nothing happened.

  No arguments.

  No corruption.

  No knife fights.

  Just scales, ink, and subtraction.

  Two thirds gone. Lina stared at the empty space where sacks had been. The rate shifted with the lord's appetite. Processed grain was taxed lighter.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Noted.

  I wasn't thinking about hauling our harvest to a mill next season. I was thinking about building one.

  Next stop was the market. Lina insisted we test the market first.

  The market was a maze of stalls and canvases. The smells of spices, sweat, and livestock mingled into a heavy perfume. The noise was a constant roar: haggling, shouting, laughter. So much life. And then it happened. Lina's eyes widened. She pointed.

  "The cakes! Father, look! They have honey cakes!"

  The old man's gaze was a flat stone. "We're here for grain, Lina. Not cakes."

  "Just one? Please?"

  A sigh, a surrender. He fumbled in a small pouch, produced a coin. Lina shot off like an arrow, threading through the crowd with a practiced grace. My eyes followed her, a bright splash of color in the drab brown of the market. The crowd parted for a heartbeat, and I saw them.

  Four of them. All wearing the same faded green armband. They weren't walking so much as claiming the space they moved through. Heads shaved. Faces hard.

  They stopped at a fruit stall. The stallkeeper — a woman with tired eyes — seemed to shrink under their attention. One of them said something, too low to hear. She gestured at her wares, hands fluttering like nervous birds.

  Lina was right there. A few feet away. Holding her precious honey cake. Waiting for change.

  I was already on my feet.

  The old man's hand clamped down on my shoulder. His grip was stronger than it looked.

  "Don't," he whispered. "Not our business."

  "But—"

  "She's not a fool. She'll be fine." His eyes stayed on the scene, calm, measuring. Not fear — assessment.

  "They're the Greens. One of the major gangs around here."

  One of them picked up an apple, turned it slowly in his hand, inspecting it with theatrical care, then tossed it back into the pile. They moved on, melting into the crowd as quickly as they had appeared. The stallkeeper exhaled — a breath she must have been holding for a century.

  Lina returned a moment later, oblivious, a smear of honey shining on her chin.

  "See?" the old man said, releasing my shoulder. He didn't look at me. His eyes stayed on Lina. "Nothing to worry about. Finish your cake. We have work to do."

  I hadn't realized how tight my jaw had been until it loosened.

  "I want to ask for prices," Lina said, already pulling me along. "A bakery, maybe a few food stalls. Maybe we can sell directly to them and skip the merchant."

  I wiped the honey from her chin with the edge of my sleeve. "Lead the way."

  The first bakery smelled like flour and hot stone. A broad woman with rolled sleeves listened to Lina's explanation while kneading dough.

  "How much grain?" she asked.

  Lina told her.

  The woman snorted. "That's not a sack for bread. That's a winter."

  "You could grind it fresh," Lina offered.

  "With which hands?" the baker shot back. "And store it where? In my apron?"

  We tried a stew vendor next. Then a tavern cook. Then a man selling flatbread from a cart.

  Interest, yes. Always interest.

  "Good grade?"

  "Officially stamped."

  "Hm."

  And then the same problem every time.

  Too much volume.

  Not enough coin.

  No storage.

  One tavern keeper leaned closer and lowered his voice. "If you want small sales, you'd have to bring it ground. In sacks I can measure. Otherwise I'd need a cart of my own."

  Lina nodded seriously, absorbing every word.

  By the fourth attempt, her steps slowed.

  "See," she said quietly, earlier brightness fading. "I thought… I don't know what I thought."

  "Thinking is good," the old man said, turning the cart toward the merchant's district, where timber stalls gave way to stone fronts and shuttered windows. "You thought there might be a better deal. There's always the idea of one. Making it real is the hard part."

  The merchant's office was cool and dim — a stark contrast to the bright chaos of the market.

  A man sat behind a heavy desk, ledger open before him. His face looked like a closed door.

  He glanced at our receipt. "How much?"

  The old man told him.

  The merchant ran a finger down a column, did the math without looking at us, and named a price.

  It was low. Insultingly low.

  Lina inhaled sharply, ready to speak, but her father lifted a hand.

  "That is not the market rate," he said evenly.

  The merchant didn't look up. "Grain from the valley. Sold by a farmer who wants to go home today." He dipped the quill again. "My rate reflects that."

  Silence settled over the room.

  The old man's jaw worked once. Twice. He looked at Lina. Then at me.

  "Your rate reflects urgency," I said quietly. "Ours reflects quality."

  The merchant finally raised his eyes.

  "Quality doesn't store itself."

  "We're not desperate," I said. "We're efficient. There's a difference."

  "Efficient men don't stand in my office at dusk," he replied. "They sell at dawn."

  The old man stepped in. "Efficient men also don't insult the grade stamped by the granary."

  The quill paused.

  A number was scratched out. Another written.

  The change was small. Almost mocking.

  "Storage eats coin," the merchant said. "This is generous."

  Lina swallowed, then straightened. "At that rate," she said carefully, "you're buying below milling value."

  The merchant leaned back in his chair. "Then mill it," he said. "And come back."

  I stood.

  "Thank you for your time, sir. But we can't accept those terms."

  He laughed. "You are a little girl."

  He looked at the old man — but he knew.

  "The lass has spoken," the old man said calmly. "Thank you for your time."

  The merchant's grin sharpened. "Where do you think you'll find another buyer in this town who pays more?"

  "Goodbye, sir."

  I turned and walked out. They followed.

  I had a massive cortisol spike.

  What a dick. I was pissed.

  The whole system fought against me. Again.

  The granary took because it could.

  The merchant lowered his price because he could.

  The Greens extorted because they could.

  Society didn't reward effort.

  It rewarded leverage.

  "We need to sell the grain," the old man said, cutting into my spiral. "We need tools."

  "I know." I exhaled slowly. "He was too sure of himself. Which means he knows something."

  The old man said nothing.

  "Cartel," I went on. "Or pressure from above. Maybe even the lord himself. We won't get a better rate anywhere in town. Not the regular way."

  Lina watched me carefully now.

  "But I have an idea."

  I looked at the old man. "Are there orphanages in Thornhold? Something tied to the Temple. Or the lord. Something respectable."

  He frowned slightly. "Why?"

  "Because people like being seen as generous."

  I glanced back toward the market.

  "Especially when others are watching."

  "They have an orphanage behind the Temple of the Hearth," the old man said. "A proper one. They take in the children of guards, soldiers, and the like."

  "And they need grain," I said.

  "Obviously."

  "They don't have coin," I went on. "But they have something better. Legitimacy."

  The old man frowned. "Careful."

  "The city runs on reputation," I said. "On who is seen giving and who is seen taking."

  I thought about the lords. The guards. The gangs carving up the slums. Every system compensates for its own rot.

  "We avoid the Temple itself," I continued. "If we strike a deal, it's with the orphanage directly. They organize a public collection. Not for us. For themselves."

  "And then?" Lina asked.

  "Then they use the donations to buy our grain."

  The old man's eyes narrowed. "Why would anyone give?"

  "Because they want to be seen giving," I said. "There are always men who will pay extra to look more devout than their neighbor. What's more virtuous than feeding orphans?"

  Silence stretched between us.

  I wasn't thinking about grain anymore.

  I was thinking about leverage.

  "If the head of the orphanage agrees," I said, more quietly now, "the orphans eat, the donors look righteous… and we get a fair price."

  The old man stroked his beard, considering.

  Lina's eyes were wide — not afraid. Calculating.

  "You think it will work?"

  I met her gaze.

  "It depends," I said. "On whether they want charity… or power."

  The old man pushed himself up from the bench.

  "We'll find out tomorrow," he said. "At first light."

  Outside, the market noise had dulled into evening murmur. Thornhold did not sleep — it simmered.

  We returned to the Golden Sheaf as the light faded from the streets.

  Over watered ale and a borrowed scrap of parchment, we went over the plan again — who would speak, what we would offer, what we would not.

  I was faintly surprised the old man kept playing along.

  Maybe it was one of his lessons.

  We turned in early and agreed to rise with the first light.

  Tomorrow, I’d see if I was as clever as I thought.