I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped. I knew exactly how this was going to play out. If I spoke, Randall would probably end up getting his ass kicked because of me.

  Randall just chuckled, low and rough. "Oh, one second," he said, then dug into his pocket again. He pulled out another coin and tossed it to the guy with a clink. "Now we're even, yeah? Don't want any confusion, after all."

  The man clicked his tongue in annoyance but stepped back, nodding his head toward the town. He didn’t even look at us when he gestured.

  I shot him a smirk, but it didn’t feel good. More like a challenge I wasn't sure I wanted to make. Just as I was about to take a step forward, the guy subtly raised his axe.

  My heart skipped. I swore he was going to throw it at me—just let it fly like a dart and let me die on the spot.

  I bit my lip hard, fighting the urge to shout or make a move.

  If I ever saw that axe-hole again—if he so much as stepped foot in front of me—he'd remember today. I wasn’t the kind to forget shit like that.

  Goddamn, I nearly pissed myself. That guy with the axe had me rattled, but Randall? The old bastard wasn’t fazed. No anger. No fear. He just kept walking like the whole damn world could burn down around him, and he wouldn’t blink. I wished I had his nerve, but who the hell was I kidding? I was ten. I could barely stand straight, let alone be as unshaken as him.

  “Don’t people complain about those toll collectors?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

  Randall shot me a quick look. “I wasn’t sure, Gawn. Maybe they do. But they still pay, don’t they?”

  I muttered, “Then those toll collectors must be rich by now.”

  Randall gave a low, amused grunt. “Absolutely not, kid.”

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  I turned to look at him, surprised. “They’re not rich?”

  “Rich?” Randall grunted again, shaking his head like he was explaining the obvious. “They ain’t collectors. They’re thieves. Bandits. You’ve seen ‘em with axes, right?”

  It didn’t make sense — how the hell were a bunch of bandits getting away with collecting tolls without getting caught?

  I asked, “Why aren’t they gettin’ caught then?”

  Randall’s eyes narrowed a little, but his voice didn’t change. “Let’s just say someone’s got their backs. You get me, kid?”

  He didn’t say more, but that was enough. No one just lets a band of bandits run wild without some higher-up involved, that one makes more sense. I daydreamed for a second, wishing some unlucky coachman would fall asleep at the reins and barrel through, taking out all the idiots at the toll gate. That would’ve been a good laugh.

  But a little more walking, and we hit the town.

  The air smelled like death. Rotten fish. Old food. Stale sweat. The kind of stench that made you wonder how the hell anyone could live here without their insides crawling out. The noise hit next—a buzz, a hum, voices clashing together, people walking with their heads down, staring at the ground. The sound of feet slapping against stone was the only rhythm to this place.

  The town was walled in, the buildings cramped together. Carts were lined up, the wheels leaving tracks in the ground, and the occasional drunk guy spilled out of a tavern, spinning yarns to no one in particular.

  But we finally made it to the Market District. People everywhere. Shouting. Haggling. Merchants selling anything they could get their hands on—fresh goods, trinkets, whatever the hell they could sell. A goldmine for traders. Hell for anyone trying to stand out.

  Randall found a spot for his stall, a makeshift thing near the edge of the hustle but not too deep in the heart of it all. The only thing that got me excited? This was my turf. I didn’t start off with coal, but I knew sales. I’d been there, done that, sold shit I hated at first, and learned fast. If you didn’t love what you were selling, you were screwed. No one bought from a guy who looked like he’d rather be somewhere else.

  As we set up, I could see my chance. Randall, bless him, had no idea how much I could help. The toll collector nearly took our heads off, and I wasn’t about to let that kind of shit go unnoticed. We had to get through the day alive, and I wasn’t leaving it to chance.

  Now, I wasn’t a coal expert. Not by a long shot. But selling was selling. And I knew I could help. First thing I did? Nothing. I just stood there, next to Randall, pretending like I was doing something important. Watching him work, watching the customers. It wasn’t just passing time; it was research. I needed to see who was buying, who wasn’t. What they liked. What they didn’t.

  I was watching the same faces pass by, the regulars. Workers. Blacksmiths. Households. The occasional rich merchant. By the end, I established that the goal was to get bulk sales—discounts for the blacksmiths, the guys who needed a ton of coal.

  When Randall wandered off for a minute to talk to someone, I grabbed the chance. I cleaned up the stall, made it look like we had our shit together. I put the best coals front and center. Hell, I even planned to make a sign, but we were short on materials. Didn't matter.

  Randall came back, gave me a look like I’d stolen something from him. “What’d you do to my stall, boy?” he grumbled, his voice thick with suspicion.

  I wanted to punch him in the arm, but he looked so damn serious that I just shrugged. “Made it better old man.”

  He laughed hard. “Made it better? you just play with it.”

  The thing was, it didn’t feel like it was working. I, a kid trying to tell an old man how to run his business wasn’t exactly ideal. But the stall started moving. Sales trickled in. Maybe it was me, maybe it was the timing, or maybe there just wasn’t enough competition in the coal market to stop us.