When the time finally came, I braced myself for some heavy lifting. What I didn’t expect was the old man hauling two sacks of charcoal like it was a stroll in the park, while I struggled with just one.

  I didn’t say it out loud, but under my breath, I muttered, “Awesome, young lad.”

  Randall didn’t hear me — or he pretended not to. Either way, he wasn’t breaking a sweat.

  So we walked. And walked. The road stretched on. But somewhere along the way, the trees started to change. Their trunks bore red crosses. Marked and branded. It means it was a nobility's property. If you cut those down? You were better off running. Get caught? You might find yourself in a prison or worse. Randall didn’t even flinch when he saw them. He didn’t need to. We had a land to cut trees from. Trees he could cut without fear.

  We took a few breaks, the kind that felt necessary but made the walk drag on. My legs were starting to feel the strain, but the thought of a town — faces beyond the woods, places with noise and life — pushed me forward.. And yeah, I’ll admit, it was nice to get out of the forest for a while.

  Randall tossed me an apple somewhere in the middle of it, the kind that made your teeth feel like they were being scrubbed clean. I bit into it, juice running down my chin, and we kept moving.

  About half an hour later, the scenery changed. We hit the outskirts of Mithket. Wooden walls loomed, tall and imposing, the gatehouse creaking on its hinges. A couple of guards stood lazily at the entrance, practically nodding off. I didn’t know how, but I could see all of it from a good two to three kilometers away.

  What the hell was it with this kid’s eyes? It was like I had hawk vision or something.

  The town got closer, and I muttered under my breath, “Not bad.”

  “Hey, Gawn,” Randall grunted, pointing ahead. “See that sign?”

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I followed his finger. It was a weathered wooden post, the paint long gone, letters almost fading into the background. Few men stood around it, talking, leaning on their axes. The sign itself was rough. A crossed sword and hammer, crude as hell, with a small emblem. Probably something to do with the town or the road, but I wasn’t sure.

  “That’s a toll,” Randall said, breaking my thoughts. “We’ll have to pay when we hit it. Ain’t no free passes on this road.”

  He glanced at me, eyes narrowing like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “You think it’s a charity, boy? Nothing in this world’s free.” Then he chuckled.

  As we got closer, I finally took the time to look at the sign properly. Underneath the emblem, the numbers were scratched in hastily, like they’d been written in a hurry, then smudged and re-written over and over. The ink was smeared in places, giving it a half-assed, unorganized vibe. Whoever was in charge of this place didn’t bother much with neatness.

  Pedestrians: 1 Bronze Coin

  Light Carts: 5 Bronze Coins

  Merchants or Heavier Carts: 1 Silver Coin (for carts with goods)

  Heavily Loaded Wagons: 2 Silver Coins or 1 Gold Coin (for the wealthiest)

  High-Magic Goods: 1 Gold Coin or Spirit Shards

  I’d read about the currency system in this world. Hell, I’d studied it in the history book, Pellenia. But seeing it in actual? It was different.

  As we neared the toll, I saw Randall already digging into his pocket, fingers wrapped around a coin. It pissed me off, the way they taxed even walking pedestrians — just trying to get through without selling their soul to some godforsaken town. But I kept my mouth shut. Randall had made it clear this was the way things worked, and there was no point in making a scene.

  I wasn’t about to argue, anyway. Not with the guys standing in front of us. The four men weren’t anything like the stiff guards at Mithket’s gate. These guys looked like they'd just rolled off the nearest bandit caravan, dressed in mismatched layers of brown and black cloth, faces half-hidden

  They weren’t the kind of people you made a fuss with.

  "Coal-Farmer's here to sell again. How ya doin’, Randall?" one of them said, nodding at the old man. They all knew him, apparently. They glanced at me but didn't linger long—probably sizing me up, figuring out whether I’d be trouble.

  Randall grinned and reached out with his coin, already paying the toll before they could even ask. "I’m doin' fine. Can we pass?"

  The man looked at me over, slow. His eyes came back to Randall, still smiling. "Who's this kid, Randall? Your slave or somethin'?"

  I felt my teeth grind. I wanted to do more than just think about it. First the jerk ignored the old man, then second, forget about that. I don't like this man at all. I’d never wanted to punch someone in the junk more in my life. But before I could say anything, Randall’s big hand came down on my head, ruffling my hair.

  "This is his first time," Randall said, his voice rough but with that undertone of care I’d gotten used to. "My grandson. Just makin’ sure I don’t break my back out here. He’s new to the whole road thing.”

  This old man, Randall, was a piece of work—smart as hell, but probably a coward too. If I were him, I’d do the same. I mean, what the hell else could we do? These guys were armed, carrying axes and whatever else they could fit into their ragged clothes. Us? We had charcoals. So, if we pissed them off, what were we gonna do? Throw a sack of charcoals at them and run? Sure, that sounded fun. Until you realized it was the dumbest thing you could possibly do.

  The guy shifted, sizing Randall up, before holding out the coin Randall had just handed him. "Before you pass, ain't you forgettin' somethin', old man?" he said, smirking.