Chapter 4

  Springvale

  You don’t answer—just hold his gaze. The silence stretches between you, the noise of the market fading in your awareness.

  Then Jack chuckles, the tension breaking like it was never there. He waves a gloved hand dismissively.

  "Ah, maybe I’ve got the wrong read on you," he says, a hint of playful mockery in his tone. "You’re fresh off the wagon—probably just rattled by your first look at how things work here."

  He pats you lightly on the shoulder, like an older brother brushing off a younger sibling’s nerves.

  "Forget it, Nathan. Best way to enjoy Springvale is to keep your eyes forward and your coin purse close."

  But as he turns to lead you deeper into the city, you catch it—that faint, sidelong glance over his shoulder. The kind that says he hasn’t dismissed you as much as he’s pretending to.

  Jack stops at a corner where the street splits in three, the crowd weaving around the two of you.

  "Alright, Nathan," he says, pointing down one of the lanes. "Follow that road until you see the Fountain Square—big marble thing, can’t miss it. There’s an inn on the far side called The Lantern’s Rest. Decent beds, decent prices, and the owner doesn’t ask too many questions."

  He pulls back his hand, offering you a quick, almost perfunctory nod.

  "We’ll talk again. Maybe sooner than you think."

  With that, he slips into the flow of pedestrians and vanishes between a pair of wagons, his dark blue tunic disappearing in the crowd.

  You’re about to follow his directions when the sharp edge of raised voices cuts through the market’s hum.

  "You shorted me on weight again, I know it!" a gruff male voice shouts from a nearby stall.

  "And I told you, Ryk, your scales are crooked! Always have been!" comes the heated reply from a middle-aged woman in a headscarf, her arms planted on her hips.

  Both stand on opposite sides of a cart loaded with sacks of grain, their faces red and their words loud enough to draw a small crowd. A few nearby merchants glance over but quickly look away, muttering to themselves.

  Jack stops at a corner where the street splits in three, the crowd weaving around the two of you.

  "Alright, Nathan," he says, pointing down one of the lanes. "Follow that road until you see the Fountain Square—big marble thing, can’t miss it. There’s an inn on the far side called The Lantern’s Rest. Decent beds, decent prices, and the owner doesn’t ask too many questions."

  He pulls back his hand, offering you a quick, almost perfunctory nod.

  "We’ll talk again. Maybe sooner than you think."

  With that, he slips into the flow of pedestrians and vanishes between a pair of wagons, his dark blue tunic disappearing in the crowd.

  You’re about to follow his directions when the sharp edge of raised voices cuts through the market’s hum.

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  "You shorted me on weight again, I know it!" a gruff male voice shouts from a nearby stall.

  "And I told you, Ryk, your scales are crooked! Always have been!" comes the heated reply from a middle-aged woman in a headscarf, her arms planted on her hips.

  Both stand on opposite sides of a cart loaded with sacks of grain, their faces red and their words loud enough to draw a small crowd. A few nearby merchants glance over but quickly look away, muttering to themselves.

  You linger at the edge of the growing knot of onlookers, keeping your head down as the shouting sharpens.

  "You’re robbing me blind, Ryk!" the woman snaps, jabbing a finger toward the grain sacks. "My husband will hear of this—"

  "Oh, let him!" Ryk cuts in, slamming his palm down on the cart hard enough to make the sacks bounce. "I’ve been selling here since before you could count to ten, Mira, and I won’t be called a cheat by the likes of you!"

  The crowd shifts, a few people calling for them to “settle it” while others mutter for someone to fetch the guard. You catch a few sharper words—accusations of lying, threats about “taking it to the guild”—and the tension in the air feels ready to tip into something worse.

  Then, through the crowd, you see a familiar flash of dark blue.

  Jack pushes his way forward, voice cutting clean through the noise.

  "That’s enough."

  The bickering stalls instantly under his tone—not fearful, exactly, but grudgingly respectful. He steps between them, gloved hands raised slightly, looking first at Ryk, then Mira.

  "I swear, you two cause me more headaches than the rest of the market combined," he says dryly. "Now, either we weigh the sacks again on neutral scales, or I take both your stalls for obstructing trade. Your choice."

  The two merchants grumble but don’t argue, and the crowd begins to thin, murmuring as they drift back to their business.

  As Jack turns his attention fully to the merchants, you take a slow step back, then another. The crowd, now dispersing, works in your favor—faces moving between you and the man in the dark blue tunic until you’re just another shadow slipping into the flow of the market.

  The shouts fade behind you, replaced by the steady hum of Springvale’s daytime life. Somewhere nearby, a street performer plucks a bright tune on a stringed instrument, while the scent of roasting meat drifts from a food stall.

  You’re free of Jack’s gaze—for now. But the feeling lingers that crossing paths with him again isn’t just possible… it’s inevitable.

  Lux hand slips into his pocket almost on instinct, fingers brushing the smooth face of your watch, then the small pocket knife. No coins. No currency. Not even anything that might pass as trade goods.

  Heading to The Lantern’s Rest without a way to pay suddenly feels like a very bad idea.

  Instead, you drift deeper into the market, letting your eyes wander over the stalls—noticing what sells fast, who haggles, and who looks desperate to unload stock. The air is thick with smells: spiced bread, leather oil, fresh-cut herbs, and the less pleasant tang of animals penned for sale.

  You spot a narrow side street branching off the main road, lined with quieter stalls—scrap sellers, tinkers, and traders whose goods are piled high in haphazard stacks. It feels… less regulated here, the kind of place where coin isn’t always the only currency.

  Lux wander down the quieter lane, taking in the jumble of goods—a mismatched chair here, a basket of dented cookware there—when suddenly a sharp voice cuts through the murmur of the street.

  "There you are!"

  I turn just in time to see a short, round woman with a shock of curly gray hair barreling toward you from a shop doorway. Her apron is dusted with flour, and her expression is somewhere between furious and relieved.

  "I swear, boy—" she pauses, squinting at you, "—you are my worker, right?"

  Before you can answer, she grabs your wrist with surprising strength and hauls you toward the open doorway.

  "No more excuses about traffic or bad wheels—I've got customers stacked like plates in here, and you’re already two hours late. Inside, now!"

  I stumble into a small but bustling bakery café, the air warm with the smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries. Without missing a beat, the woman shoves a basin of soapy water in front of you.

  "Start with those," she says, pointing at a teetering pile of dirty plates. "And don’t think I’m paying you for standing around gawking."

  Somewhere in the back, someone calls for more mugs, and she vanishes in a swirl of apron and clattering trays, leaving you holding a dripping plate.

  You hold up the plate, half-turning to call after her.

  "Uh—ma’am, I think you’ve got the wrong—"

  She spins on her heel, fixing you with a glare so sharp it could slice bread.

  "No trying to get out of work, you lazy boy! I don’t care what excuse you’ve cooked up this time—you’ve got two hands, and I’ve got dishes that need washing."

  Before i can get another word in, she’s already gone again, disappearing through a swinging door into what sounds like a very busy kitchen.

  I stare at the soapy basin, at the mound of dishes leaning precariously to one side… then sigh.

  "Guess I’m working now," luc mutter under your breath, rolling up your sleeves.

  The plates are warm from the sunlit counter, the water a little too hot, and before long your hands are moving on autopilot—scrub, rinse, stack—while the noise of the shop bustles around you.