He didn't head straight for the inn. Instead, he let his steps take him further, through streets where the stone grew older and the lights fewer. The noise of the performers faded behind him, replaced by the murmur of smaller trades.
Here, lanterns swung on chains, their glass cracked and smoky. The shops were little more than open doorways, cluttered with tools, trinkets, and scraps. Most players passed them by—too little profit, too much dust. Rhys slowed.
At one doorway, he found a basket of rusted blades. In the bottom lay a shard of iron with faint etchings, worn almost smooth. He turned it in his hand, the lines catching only in the right light. It was nothing to most eyes. To him, it spoke of an origin older than the weapon it once belonged to. He bought it.
