Chapter 5 - Shopping
The rhythmic sound of hooves shifted drastically, transitioning from the soft crunch of packed dirt to the sharp, echoing thuds of laid stone. Ahead, the city gates of Fritz loomed large against the mid-morning sky. It was tall, imposing, and carved from weathered gray granite.
As the open country road narrowed toward the entrance, the chaotic flow of traffic organized itself into structured lines. Massive wooden carts groaning under the weight of grain sacks, merchants aggressively guiding stubborn donkeys, and weary peasants with tool-laden shoulders all vied for space. A slow, agonizing trickle of life bottlenecked at the massive entryway, buzzing with the low, ambient murmur of commerce and complaints.
Thorskil pulled the reins, slowing their horse, Kelsey, to a casual, unhurried pace. He patiently allowed a heavy merchant cart ahead to clear the threshold before approaching the checkpoint. His rose-colored eyes calmly scanned the city's high stone archway, tracking the weathered iron portcullis spikes lining the top. They looked less like functional protection and more like a grim, historical warning to outsiders.
"Fritz," Thorskil muttered under his breath, a faint, nostalgic note in his voice. "Ah, same as always."
From beneath the heavy shadows of my makeshift cloth hood, I tilted my head up to peer at the guards. They were systematically waving travelers through the checkpoint one by one. Two towering soldiers clad in reinforced gambeson stood at rigid attention, both gripping long pikes while short swords hung securely at their hips. Their expressions leaned more toward profound boredom than strict hostility, but their eyes remained sharp, methodically flicking over every passing face and cargo bed.
Beyond the stone barrier, the inner city looked remarkably tightly packed. Colorful market stalls were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, weathered shingle rooftops leaned precariously over narrow cobbled alleys, and the structural buildings looked ancient but incredibly solid. The overall color palette of the city was earthy and muted, punctuated only by sudden splashes of vibrant, worn paint where desperate shopkeepers attempted to make their businesses stand out from the crowd.
A guard stepped out of the queue, extending a hand. "Name? State your business."
"Thorskil Samsworth, traveling from Ytval," my father answered calmly, reaching into his vest to hand over a neatly folded piece of identification parchment. "Here strictly for trade. Procuring barn tools and mechanical gears. No overnight stay intended."
The guard barely glanced at the documentation before handing it back and waving his arm toward the interior. "Gate tax is entirely waived for today, sir. It's the kickoff for festival week. Just do us a favor and try not to clog up the middle transit lane."
Thorskil offered a polite nod, clicking his tongue to signal Kelsey forward. As we passed directly beneath the massive stone archway, the bright morning light vanished, replaced by an absolute, chilling shadow for a fleeting moment. The air grew instantly cooler, the ambient noise briefly muffled, and then, we exploded into the overwhelming roar of the city proper.
***
The central market stretched out before us like a coiled, chaotic snake. Endless rows of vendors lined both sides of the main avenue, aggressively shouting their prices over one another in a desperate bid for attention. Young children weaved effortlessly through the dense forest of adult legs, while the thick, heavy scents of spiced cooking oil, fresh sawdust, and roasted sweet corn wafted through the air, completely dominating the senses.
I blinked rapidly, the sheer explosion of color, motion, and proximity causing my chest to tighten with a familiar, suffocating anxiety.
"So incredibly noisy," Lyra muttered from the rear, tightly clapping her hands over her ears to block out the din.
"Cities are naturally like that," Thorskil replied, his deep voice remaining an anchor of absolute calm amidst the madness. "Especially when there is a major festival happening."
He reached forward briefly, his massive hand resting reassuringly on my shoulder for a brief second before he subtly shifted his posture in the saddle. It wasn't physical discomfort that caused him to move, but rather a sudden, quiet realization.
Had it not been for Damian passing through Ytval at the exact right moment...
Thorskil's mind drifted. If that traveling mage hadn't possessed a satchel full of rare alchemical salves and the specialized knowledge of healing magic, Kyro would currently be suffering. He'd be roaming around a chaotic environment with a severely broken arm bound in a primitive canvas sling.
And here in Fritz?
Thorskil glanced down one of the narrow, shadows-drenched side streets, his eyes locking onto a specific healer's sigil intricately carved into the stone above a cramped doorway. It was the exact kind of predatory establishment where they didn't care to ask how badly a patient was hurting; they only cared to ask exactly how much gold you could afford to pay up front.
A basic, non-magical bone setting in a city like Fritz cost more than an entire month's agricultural harvest. A single, pure dose of a low-grade Regen Elixir could easily match the price of a brand-new wagon wheel and a winter's worth of vital grain. Even basic painkillers were heavily taxed and overpriced, sealed tightly in waxed paper and sold exclusively to the wealthy like premium luxuries. Thorskil knew the precise, dismissive look city healers gave when a desperate parent walked through their doors with a wounded child but a flat coin purse. He had witnessed that cold reality multiple times during his younger years.
In a place like this, a normal farming family would have been forced to make a devastating choice: pay to heal their child's shattered limb, or afford enough food to avoid starvation.
Thorskil said absolutely nothing of these dark thoughts aloud. He simply kept his hands steady on the reins, expertly guiding Kelsey down the wide avenue, weaving seamlessly past lumbering cargo carts and heavy foot traffic, his sharp eyes searching for their destination.
***
Eventually, Kelsey came to a slow, deliberate halt in front of a modest, tucked-away establishment located just off the main cobbled thoroughfare. A weathered wooden sign swung gently in the morning breeze, its faded, painted letters spelling out a simple name: GEAR & GRIND. It was an old, reliable tools-and-supplies merchant Thorskil had frequented for years.
My father dismounted the horse with practiced, fluid ease, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a soft grunt. Lyra slid down immediately after him, humming a cheerful tune as she threw her arms wide to stretch beneath the bright city sky. The street around them bustled with activity, such as traders shouting, farmers inspecting goods, and children darting past carrying bundles of fresh bread or bolts of raw fabric.
I remained firmly seated atop the horse, my entire posture incredibly rigid, my head still heavily wrapped in the protective cloth. Beneath the frayed edges of the fabric, my golden eyes warily scanned the passing faces, looking for any sign of hostility.
Thorskil shot a quick glance up at me but chose not to press the issue. Instead, he placed a guiding hand on Lyra's shoulder and led her into the shop.
A small brass bell mounted above the door jingled merrily as they crossed the threshold. The air inside the shop was dense and heavy, smelling strongly of old iron, fresh sawdust, and a faintly bitter, chemical aroma—likely alchemical rust-preventative oils. A stout, muscular man with soot-stained fingers and a thick beard braided tightly like heavy rope looked up from his ledgers behind the counter. The moment his eyes landed on Thorskil's massive frame, his entire face illuminated with genuine joy.
"Well, burn my bloody boots! If it isn't Thorskil Samsworth himself!" the merchant bellowed, his booming voice bouncing off the tool-lined walls as he spread his arms wide. "It's been a hot minute, eh old friend?"
Thorskil chuckled warmly, extending a massive hand for a firm handshake that quickly evolved into a hearty, masculine shoulder-clap. "A very long minute, Marn. Still breathing, and still swinging the hammer."
"Good, good! And I see you're still dragging that little whirlwind around with you," Marn said with a hearty laugh, reaching over to playfully ruffle Lyra's sky-blue hair. She giggled loudly, swatting his hand away with practiced sibling-like annoyance. "Little Miss Samsworth is getting taller by the damn month."
Lyra proudly puffed out her small chest, resting her hands on her hips. "I am officially helping Papa purchase the heavy construction tools today. I am practically an adult, you know."
"Oh, I don't doubt it for a second," Marn said with a knowing wink. Then, his eyes naturally drifted past them, looking through the clean glass of the storefront window, and paused. "Say, Thors... who is the quiet little guy still sitting up on the horse out there?"
Thorskil followed his line of sight, a slow, gentle sigh escaping his nose.
"That's Kyro," my father said softly. "My son."
Marn blinked in genuine bewilderment, his thick eyebrows lifting high up his forehead. "Your son? Well, I'll be damned... I didn't even realize you had another one running around. I've never seen him come to town before."
Thorskil gave a small, solemn nod, his facial expression remaining entirely unreadable for a brief beat. "He is... not particularly fond of venturing out into public. Doesn't care for crowds. It seems large, open spaces make him incredibly uncomfortable."
Marn scratched thoughtfully at his thick cheek, staring out at my heavily shrouded silhouette on the horse. "A quiet kid, huh?"
"Yes," Thorskil replied softly, but he spoke with a sudden, intense certainty that caused the merchant to pause mid-scribble over his ledger. "But quiet does not equate to lacking, Marn. He has got a massive storm brewing inside of him. It is just taking him a little longer than the rest of us to find the right wind."
Lyra tilted her head, her chaotic demeanor briefly softening into a thoughtful, curious expression as she listened to her father's profound description, her eyes tracking back to me.
"A storm inside?" she echoed quietly under her breath.
Thorskil didn't expand on the statement or elaborate. Instead, he turned his attention back to the wooden counter and began methodically listing the specific items they had traveled for: heavy-duty rope, specialized whetstones, and a few basic gear upgrades for the farm implements. But even as he conducted his business, his gaze repeatedly lingered on the open doorway, watching my stiff silhouette. I sat there on the horse, clutching the reins like a lifeline, utterly unsure whether to hold on tight or let go completely; looking exactly like a fragile leaf caught in a powerful draft it didn't yet trust.
***
By the time they exited the shop, Thorskil's internal concern for my well-being had significantly deepened. Every single minute we spent exposed on the public road seemed to actively chip away at my posture. I wasn't slouched from physical fatigue; rather, I was visibly shrinking, curling inward as if attempting to fold my entire physical body out of existence with every passing glance from a random stranger.
Thorskil looked at Lyra, then looked back up at me. A sudden, tactical parenting thought sparked in his mind.
Maybe... maybe some warm food will help ground him, the father of two thought, a gentle smile breaking across his face. perhaps lighten the mood.
He guided Kelsey down the street, eventually pulling to a stop in front of a modest, inviting restaurant nestled snugly between a bustling blacksmith and a quiet fletcher's shop. A neatly carved wooden sign hung lazily above the entrance, swinging in the gentle midday breeze.
Thorskil and Lyra dismounted smoothly. "Oooh! We are finally eating real food?" Lyra grinned ecstatically, bouncing right behind her father. "I want the massive ground steak, Papa!"
Thorskil chuckled, turning to face her. "Say the magic word first."
"Please~!" she begged, deliberately widening her yellow eyes into an exaggerated, utterly shameless puppy-dog stare.
He laughed heartily, tossing his hands up. "Fine, fine. You shall have your steak."
Then, he turned his warm gaze up to me. I was still perched precariously atop Kelsey, one hand desperately gripping the cloth hood tight around my face.
"Kyro, would you please dismount off Kelsey?" Thorskil asked gently. "I want you and your sister to head inside and secure us a good table while I go tie Kelsey up at the nearby stables, alright?"
I hesitated. My tiny fingers twitched violently around the fabric of my hood, the anxiety screaming at me to stay hidden, but I forced myself to let go.
"Y-yeah. Sure, Dad," I replied, my voice sounding incredibly soft and small.
I carefully, methodically slid down Kelsey's massive flank, ensuring my feet hit the cobblestones safely. I immediately reached up to keep the cloth draped securely over the upper half of my face, shielding my eyes. Thorskil gave a reassuring nod and turned to lead the horse away, fully trusting his children to walk the short distance into the establishment together.
But before I could properly secure the knot on my hood, a chaotic force intervened.
"C'mon, slowpoke!" Lyra chirped loudly. Without an ounce of warning, she reached down, grabbed my tiny wrist, and gave it a violent, enthusiastic yank.
I stumbled forward blindly, my center of gravity completely destroyed. The protective cloth instantly slipped out from my small, sweaty fingers.
"W-wait—!" I gasped out, spinning around desperately to reach for it.
But it was already too late. The fabric fluttered uselessly through the air, landing flat on the dirty cobblestones behind me, completely forgotten as Lyra aggressively dragged my small frame straight toward the restaurant's heavy wooden doors.
***
The interior of the restaurant was remarkably warm, well, not just in terms of physical temperature, but in its overall atmosphere.
Massive, hand-hewn wooden beams lined the ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows across a massive stone hearth where a crackling fire burned brightly. Low-hanging iron chandeliers flickered with warm candlelight, illuminating an uneven floor made of ancient timber that had been polished to a smooth sheen by thousands of historical boots. The entire space smelled incredibly rich, filled with the aromas of roasted meats, heavy garlic, fresh-baked bread, and spilled ale.
But there were people. So many goddamn people..!
I froze completely just three steps past the threshold, my breath catching in my throat. The deafening noise of laughter, the sea of moving bodies, the perceived weight of countless gazes... even if the objective truth was that absolutely no one was paying attention to a random toddler, my brain screamed that every eye in the room was locked onto me. And my cloth was completely gone. My singular layer of psychological defense had been left out on the dirty street.
Oh god...
I swallowed hard, lowering my head as far as humanly possible without hunching over like a complete freak. I immediately locked my vision exclusively onto the backs of Lyra's boots. They were made of scuffed brown leather, featuring a messy, knotted lace she continuously refused to retie. I followed those boots like a desperate, silent shadow.
"Fooood~!" she sighed happily, practically drooling at the rich aromas as we navigated past the packed tables. Her yellow eyes sparkled with pure gluttony as she scanned the packed layout.
I stayed dangerously close to her side, focusing entirely on her loud, grounding presence. It was infinitely easier than looking literally anywhere else in the room.
Suddenly, her eyes locked onto a target. She had spotted a perfect table tucked away into the absolute farthest corner of the restaurant; a beautiful, slightly isolated booth where the shadows were deep.
Perfect. If we could just reach that spot, I could finally breathe.
Lyra accelerated her pace. I moved faster too, having absolutely no other choice. But just as we reached the literal edge of the empty table, a loud, scraping sound echoed out.
No.
Four rough-looking adventurers dropped into the chairs like a pack of starved vultures claiming a fresh carcass. Three of them were humans clad in mismatched, battle-worn leather armor, while the fourth was a towering Beastfolk Orc with olive-green skin, massive protruding tusks, and arms the size of literal tree trunks. They laughed boisterously, slamming their heavy fists onto the table as they began loudly calling for drinks.
Lyra stopped dead in her tracks, her small hands instantly clenching into tight fists at her sides.
"HEY!" she shouted, her sharp voice slicing through the ambient tavern noise like a thrown dagger. "That is explicitly our seat! Get the hell out of here, you total chumps!"
All four seasoned adventurers paused, turning their heads to look down at the source of the voice. One of the humans raised a judgmental eyebrow, while another began to chuckle softly at the sheer absurdity of the situation.
The towering Orc leaned heavily back in his chair, his ivory tusks catching the amber candlelight like dangerous daggers. "I didn't exactly see your name carved onto the wood, little miss," he rumbled, his deep voice sounding like grinding gravel.
Beside him, the tallest human adventurer smirked lazily, resting his chin in his hand. "Maybe you should have sat your little butt down faster, kid."
Lyra's nostrils flared with pure, unadulterated fury. With a highly dramatic huff, she violently yanked up her sleeves, looking entirely prepared to ignite a full-scale tavern brawl in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
"I saw it first!" she snapped defiantly.
My chest began to tighten into a painful knot again. The sheer embarrassment of the public spectacle was overwhelming my anxiety. I reached out, desperately tugging at the edge of her sleeve, attempting to ground both myself and her before things turned bloody.
"Lyra... it is completely fine," I murmured quietly, my voice pleading. "Let's just... let's just find another table somewhere else."
She spun her head around to face me, her brows furrowing in deep confusion and disappointment. Then, without a single shred of warning, she raised her hand and delivered a sharp smack to the back of my head.
Whack!
"AH?! Wha—?"
"Do not be an absolute coward, Kyro!" she declared loudly, puffing up her small chest with ridiculous pride. "Come on, let's just beat them up together!"
Huh?!
I stood there completely stunned, the sheer, unmitigated shock of her statement completely snapping me out of my internal panic attack. The absolute, unhinged audacity of this little gremlin was beyond comprehension!
Before I could even open my mouth to vehemently protest, she marched directly toward the table of armed killers like a pint-sized barbarian queen, aggressively dragging me along by the wrist. I dug my heels firmly into the floorboards, trying desperately to halt her forward momentum, but the physical strength inherent in her body was completely absurd.
Damn these overpowered fantasy barbarian genes! I cursed bitterly inside my own head, half-resigned to the fact that we were about to be brutally murdered by an Orc.
But just as her boots reached the perimeter of the table, a massive, familiar hand suddenly swooped down from above. With absolute, effortless grace, it plucked Lyra clean off the floorboards like a ripe turnip. I stumbled backward, blinking rapidly in confusion.
What the—?
We both looked up simultaneously. Standing above us was Thorskil. Thank the heavens, it was Thorskil. He held a squirming, kicking Lyra securely under his massive arm like a stray potato sack, his facial expression remaining as calm, courteous, and polite as ever.
"Please forgive my daughter's unruly behavior," he said smoothly, offering a polite, dignified nod to the startled adventurers. "Please, excuse us."
But the moment his face entered the light, the entire table went completely pale. A cold bead of sweat immediately rolled down the green temple of the massive Orc.
"N-No problem at all, Mr. Thorskil!" one of the human men stammered out, his voice instantly jumping an octave as he shoved his chair back.
Another adventurer chimed in immediately, his hands raised defensively. "We had absolutely no idea these were your children, sir! Please, take our seats instead! Really, we insist! We were just leaving!"
Thorskil tilted his head slightly, a subtle glint in his rose-colored eyes. Then, a mild smile graced his lips.
"Is that so?" he said casually. "Well then. Thank you for your courtesy."
"Th-The pleasure is entirely ours, sir," the Orc replied nervously, standing up so rapidly that his heavy wooden chair nearly tipped completely over onto the floor.
The four seasoned warriors practically fled the immediate vicinity, shuffling toward a distant table while offering awkward, rhythmic bows and desperately avoiding any direct eye contact. Lyra and I watched the entire group retreat in absolute silence, both of us blinking like we had just witnessed a literal, localized miracle.
Thorskil sat down in the center booth without a single care in the world. He gently deposited a grumpy, pouting Lyra into the seat beside him like a defeated kitten, calmly pulling out his leather coin pouch. I quietly took the vacant seat directly across from them, my adult mind still reeling from the sheer display of authority.
A heavy silence lingered over the table for a moment. Thorskil didn't seem fazed in the slightest by the interaction. He calmly began counting his silver pieces, acting as though terrifying a group of armed mercenaries into submission was a routine Tuesday occurrence.
Eventually, the silence had to be broken.
"That was absolutely amazing!" Lyra exploded enthusiastically, bouncing up and down in her seat so hard the table shook. "What did you seriously do to them, Papa?! You didn't even have to fight them!"
Thorskil let out a soft, amused sigh as he glanced down at the few remaining coins in his palm. Then, with a faint, knowing smile, he looked up at her.
"Well," he said casually, "Papa happens to be pretty well-known around local adventurer circles."
Lyra gasped dramatically, her jaw dropping. "Really?! Like a literal living legend?! What kind of cool stuff did you do in the past? Tell meee!"
Even I found myself leaning forward across the table, my analytical curiosity thoroughly piqued despite my best efforts to remain detached. "Does it happen to have something to do with your specific combat rank, Dad?" I asked, tilting my head.
Thorskil chuckled softly, pocketing his coin pouch with a fluid motion.
"Maybe. Maybe not," Thorskil said, flashing us a subtle wink. "Let's just say... Papa's name carries a little bit of weight around the kingdom's borders." His tone was completely casual, sounding like a man commenting on the morning weather rather than confessing to being a semi-famous military asset.
"Woaaah~!" Lyra's eyes sparkled like twin suns. "You have to tell us more!"
Thorskil laughed warmly. "Alright, alright. But first, let's actually get some food into our bellies, yeah?"
"Mmh!" Lyra nodded aggressively, her hunger temporarily matching her curiosity.
I let out a dry, quiet chuckle at her ridiculous antics. Honestly, in a strange way, it was kind of cute watching her go full, unhinged fangirl over our own father.
[End]