The biting wind whipped Silas’s threadbare cloak around him, the grey fabric offering little comfort against the glacial chill of the plains. He squinted at the huddled figures approaching, their rough-spun furs a stark contrast to the glint of metal that adorned some of their weapons. These were the Northern Reapers, a fierce tribe known for their brutal efficiency and their surprisingly good quality obsidian tools. Silas adjusted the straps of his pack animals, their thick hides offering better protection than his own. He'd been a nomad for as long as he could remember, traversing the shattered landscape that was once called Earth, now a patchwork of warring factions, tribes clinging to tradition, and raiders who respected nothing but power.

  Silas was not a man of sentiment. Survival was his mantra, ruthlessness his shield. He bought low, sold high, and kept moving. He had no loyalty but to the next trade, the next meal, the next safe place to lay his weary head. The Reapers were a good stop this cycle. Their goods were simple, but often sturdy, and they always had something he could turn a profit on elsewhere.

  As the Reapers reached him, led by a hulking figure with a scarred face and eyes as cold as winter, Silas gave a curt nod. "Reaper chief," he grunted, his voice a low rasp. He didn't bother with names; they were irrelevant.

  The chief returned the nod, his gaze sweeping over Silas's pack animals. "You got the usual?" he demanded, his voice gravelly.

  Silas gestured to his pack animals, two heavily built beasts with thick, coarse hair. Each held a variety of goods, from salvaged medical supplies scavenged from ancient ruins to hand-woven baskets he’d gotten from a more pastoral tribe weeks ago.

  "Iron scraps, medical bandages, some woven fabrics," Silas listed, his eyes sharp, gauging the Reapers' interest. "I also have a few sharpened metal points, salvaged from a Skywreck," he added, referring to the remnants of the ancient war that had broken the world. He knew the Reapers valued those.

  The trading began, a dance of haggling and veiled threats. Silas was a master of the art. He knew their needs as well as he knew his own, and he drove a hard bargain, allowing no room for pity or sentiment. He traded bandages for obsidian blades, the iron scraps for a particularly well-made axe head. He kept a keen eye on the Reapers' faces, noting subtle gestures and changes in tone, reading their desires like an open book. He had learned that knowledge was as valuable as any commodity.

  As the exchange neared its end, Silas scanned the rest of the tribe, his gaze stopping on a young woman clutching a crudely made leather pouch. He recognized the faint glimmer of crystalline powder beneath the worn leather. "Any of you have a need for…stimulants?" Silas asked, his voice carefully neutral.

  The Reapers exchanged glances; a silent conversation passed between them Silas couldn't quite decipher. The chief grunted and shook his head. Silas already expected the answer, this time he’d been fishing for information.

  The trade was done. Silas purchased some jerky and a few spare water skins, checking the seals thrice before stowing them away. As he prepared to leave, Silas noticed another group of travelers approaching, their weapons gleaming with the smooth, silver of advanced alloys. He recognized them as the Technocrats, a faction that clung to the remnants of the old world, obsessed with rediscovering its technology. Silas knew the Technocrats wouldn't be interested in his goods, but they always had rumors.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He moved to the edge of the Reaper camp, not quite within their circle but close enough to hear them speak. He pretended to be checking the straps on his pack animals, his ears working overtime.

  "Heard the Crimson Hand have moved further south," one of the Reapers said, his voice low. "They’ve started capturing tribals for their slave mines.”

  "The Hand's tech must have improved," another replied. "Heard they're using some sort of sonic weapon, makes it easy to take people."

  Silas filed away the information. The Crimson Hand, a particularly vicious raiding faction with technological advantages, moving south was a development worth noting. He would need to adjust his route.

  He gave a final nod to the Reapers, and with a sharp whistle, urged his pack animals onward. The wind howled around him as he disappeared over the horizon, his heart as cold as the landscape he traveled. Silas was a nomad, a trader, a survivor. And in this fractured world, that was all he needed to be. The knowledge he had gained today, the whispers he had heard, would guide him on his path, a path that was never safe, never easy, but always, undeniably, his own.

  The wind whipped Silas's weathered cloak around him, a biting, icy caress that mirrored the chill in his heart. He didn't flinch. Years of harsh living had hardened him, sculpted him into the being he was: a trader, cold in action and spirit, but fiercely protective of the few things he held dear. He adjusted the strap of his bolt-action rifle, the familiar weight a comfort against his shoulder. It was old, reliable, and had seen him through more than its fair share of scrapes.

  Behind him, his two pack mules plodded steadily through the rugged landscape. The older one, a hulking beast of a mule named Gruff, was his constant companion. He’d caught Gruff wild, a defiant young thing, and they’d grown together, scarred and weathered. Gruff’s thick hide was a tapestry of old wounds, testament to battles and close calls. The other, a younger mule named Grunt, he'd purchased for a handful of silver years ago. Grunt was quicker and less predictable, but just as scarred, a testament to the dangers they regularly faced. Neither was timid. They’d learned to protect themselves, to kick and bite with surprising ferocity.

  Their packs, meticulously arranged, held the tools of Silas’s trade: sturdy, primitive weapons, and tools fashioned from obsidian. The Reaper tribe, with whom Silas had bartered last, had a knack for chipping the volcanic glass into wickedly sharp blades and implements.

  He’d left the Reaper tribe camp before the first light, the echoes of their guttural singing fading behind him. He felt no longing, no pang of connection. He wasn’t a man for tribes or for any sense of community. He was a man of trade, and the road was his only true home.

  The sun, a pale disc in the overcast sky, did little to warm the landscape. The terrain was a harsh mix of rocky outcrops and sparse, wind-battered vegetation. The wind howled through the canyons, a mournful song that seemed to echo Silas's own loneliness. He kept his eyes scanning the horizon, his senses honed for any sign of danger. Raiders were a constant threat, as were territorial wildlife and the ever-present risk of a sudden storm. The road was not for the faint of heart.

  As the day progressed, Silas kept a steady pace, Gruff and Grunt matching him stride for stride. They were more than just beasts of burden; they were his lifeline. Gruff with his stubborn loyalty, and Grunt with his unpredictable power. Silas knew he could rely on them. He’d seen them fight off wolves, kick away would-be thieves, their thick hides providing a formidable defense. Their scars were a warning, a testament to their resilience.

  The journey was the thing. The constant forward motion. Each footfall ate away at the distance. Each mile brought him closer to the next trade, the next opportunity to barter, to survive. He didn’t dwell on the past, and he didn't dream of the future. He existed in the present, focused on the task at hand: travel.

  He pulled a strip of dried meat from his pouch, chewing it methodically. He didn’t need luxury or companionship. He had his rifle, his mules, and the open road. That was all he needed, all he wanted. Silas, the cold and ruthless trader, was going to the next trade. And he’d be ready for whatever awaited him. The road and his life depended on it.