I told him straight. “Old man, if you offered them two sacks instead of one, they’d probably bite. Maybe even haggle themselves down without realizing it.”

  That’s how it started. Just me, quietly rewiring the way this geezer ran his stall. A little nudge here, a suggestion there. Sales was muscle memory for me.

  But Randall? Stubborn like only old men and dying trees can be. I get it. So I did what any reasonable man trapped in a kid’s body would do. I cupped my hands and let my voice erupt through the market.

  “BUY TWO SACKS — GET A LITTLE EXTRAAAA!”

  So, heads turned. Eyes locked in.

  And then Randall’s hand clamped over my mouth. His voice scraped low through his teeth. “Shut yer damn mouth, boy. This ain’t no fish market.”

  But when one of the customers perked up and asked, “Is that true, old man?” — I could practically feel Randall’s soul leave his body for a second.

  “No, it ain’t. Sorry, I—” he replied.

  “Oh, Too bad!” the customer responded. “I was just thinking I might buy two if—”

  Randall spun on him. “OHHH, THAT’S TRUE ALRIGHT!” His voice boomed this time. “BUY TWO SACKS — AND GET A LITTLE EXTRAAA!”

  And just like that — the old geezer was in. His hand curled behind my neck — not rough this time. Firm. Pulling me down as if we were co-conspirators. His voice dropped to a growl only I could hear.

  “Smile, you little bastard. You start somethin’? You finish it.”

  And damn it… I smiled.

  By noon, Randall had sold out every damn sack of charcoal he brought. Record time, too. The old geezer looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe a god while counting those coins.

  Part of me expected him to start drafting up a contract. "Official Manager: Gawn, Street Sales Prodigy." Yeah, no thanks. Unless it came with hazard pay and a dental plan.

  He sat there, clutching that little pile of coins. I didn’t even bother him. Let the old man have his moment. He deserved to go home early for once instead of limping back after sundown with a half-empty sack and a sore back.

  Then he surprised me.

  "Why don’t you go buy somethin’ for yourself, Gawn?"

  I blinked. Looked down. He was holding out bronze coins.

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  Oh. Oh, we’re feeling generous today?

  "You serious, old man?" I asked, eyeing him thinking that he might yank it back.

  He snorted. "What, you think I’m jokin’? If I was jokin’, you’d be laughin’. Now go. Fill that hollow leg of yours before you start chewin’ bark."

  I squinted at him. "…I was just asking."

  "Yeah, yeah." He waved me off. "Don’t get robbed. Or do. Might teach you somethin’."

  Real heartwarming, Randall. But I took the coin anyway.

  And I wandered.

  Not far—just enough to feel like I could breathe without somebody barking in my ear. The market was thinning out, sellers packing their carts, wiping sweat off their necks. I could still see Randall fussing over his stall, muttering to himself as he packed up.

  The town of Mithket wasn’t exactly a maze, and if I got lost, well—that sounded like a tomorrow problem. I stuffed my hands deep in my pockets, fingers curling around three bronze coins. Couldn’t help it. Kept rolling them between my fingers. My brain wouldn’t shut up about thieves. They could probably show up I thought. Slip in. Slip out. Your pockets turned up empty before you even knew you’d been kissed.

  So yeah—I guarded my coins like a paranoid idiot. Didn’t stop me from drifting toward the food stalls, though.

  Gods.

  The smell hit me. Fresh bread grilling over an open flame. Meat I couldn’t even name sizzling on skewers. Sweet, spiced fruit bubbling in little copper pots.

  This was it.

  Heaven.

  Well.

  My version of it anyway. Funny in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. I was thinking about what the hell I was gonna eat first.

  I didn’t exactly plan on stopping here. My stomach did. Traitor.

  The bread stall was nothing special — old wooden counter warped from too many rainy seasons, a sun-bleached cloth sagging like it had given up years ago. Behind it, a clay oven coughed out lazy ribbons of smoke. Yeast. Char. Burnt crust. Woodsmoke. Gods, that smell could drag a corpse back to life.

  I jabbed a finger at one of the rolls. “How much for one, miss?”

  Technically a mrs, judging by the ring and that housewife tired-but-doesn’t-complain look. She peered down at me — literally. I’m short, I get it.

  Her eyes crinkled with amusement, sweat trailing down her cheek. “One bronze, little one. You buying?”

  Cheap. Suspiciously cheap. Either she was feeling generous or wildly bad at business. Or maybe nobody else wandered this far from the market center except starving rats and me.

  “Yup.” I fished a coin from my pocket, flipping it between my fingers. My stomach was already negotiating with my brain — get the burnt one, get the burnt one.

  She gestured to the rows of bread. Some rolls looked pale and soft. The good stuff had bark-black crusts, so I pointed at the most abused-looking roll in the batch. “That one.”

  She handed it over without blinking. Still smiling.

  “You sell these this cheap all the time?” I asked, biting in. Gods. Crunchy and soft inside.

  “If I didn’t,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “the peasants workers wouldn’t come back.”

  I snorted. “Guess I’ll tell them you’re undercharging next time I see ‘em. Maybe they’ll start paying double.”

  She laughed. “Boy like you? Always got something to say.”

  Damn right I do.

  I pushed my way back into the heart of town. People everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Loud enough to make my skull ache.

  Two bronze coins was in my pocket. And a bread roll. Freebie. Hell yeah.

  Lady at the stall must’ve liked my face. Or pitied it. Either way, I wasn’t complaining. Told her I’d spread a word about her cheap bread, people on Earth call it, Word of mouth. Or in this case, word of starving kid.

  I tore a bite off my bread while weaving through the crowd. The crust crackled. Smoky, bitter on the edges — just how I liked it. The second roll? Saving that for the old man. He needed it more than me.

  Coins stay in the pocket. No debate. I wasn’t dumb enough to blow them on something shiny. Not yet.

  But seriously — what the hell was with all these people?

  Half of them looked like they crawled straight out of a mercenary bar. Light armor half-hanging off their clothes, weapons strapped on like fashion accessories. Blades, axes, spears — some sharp, some probably for show.

  Raiders? Sell-swords? Idiots with too much confidence? Hard to tell.

  Either way, the noise was getting biblical. Kids screaming, vendors shouting, knives hacking at cutting boards, drunken laughter coming from the stone walls.

  My head pounded. I kept walking. Kept chewing. Let the bread drown it all out.

  Step. Bite. Step. Bite.

  Didn’t even notice the footsteps behind me until—

  “Oh, look at you... little mongrel stuffing your face like you’ve never seen food before.”

  I damn near jumped out of my skin.

  Heart went straight to my throat. My hand slapped over my chest. Slowly, I turned.

  A cat.

  Staring dead at me. Serious face. Too serious. Like... not-cat serious.

  Why did I know this thing? Where had I—?

  No. No way.

  I shook my head. "Tch... just hearing things,” I muttered, turning away. Fast.

  "Oi."

  That voice again.

  "You walk away while I'm speaking, boy, I'll have you walking on three legs next time.”

  I stopped cold. My hands shook — barely — but enough to make me clench them tight.

  Frustration flared up hard in my chest.

  Bread in one hand. Fear in the other.

  And behind me? Was it the cat?