I make my way back through the alleys toward the main streets, my stomach still growling angrily.
I need food. Real food. But I'm not going back to that tavern. Not now. Not ever.
Which means I need to find something else.
Wait.
I pat my pockets and feel the weight of coins. When I paid for the stew at the tavern, the bartender gave me change. I pull out the coins and examine them.
One gold coin engraved with "5". Four gold coins engraved with "1".
So when I gave her my ten-gold coin for the stew that cost one gold, she gave me back nine gold in change. Five gold and four singles.
I have nine gold total. Good.
As I emerge onto one of the larger streets, I spot what I'm looking for—the market square.
Even from here, I can see the merchant stalls set up in neat rows, vendors calling out their wares, people browsing and haggling.
I head toward it, weaving through the late afternoon crowd.
The market is busier than I expected. Dozens of stalls line the square, selling everything from fabric to tools to food.
The air is filled with the sounds of commerce—vendors shouting, customers arguing over prices, the clatter of coins changing hands.
I make my way to a produce stall. An elderly woman sits behind a display of vegetables—carrots, onions, something that looks like a turnip, leafy greens I don't recognize.
"How much for carrots?" I ask.
She looks me up and down, taking in my strange clothes with a raised eyebrow.
"Five silver for a bunch," she says.
Five silver. I need to break one of my gold coins into silver.
"And bread?" I ask.
"Ten silver for a loaf."
So vegetables and bread would be fairly cheap in silver.
"I'll take two bunches of carrots, some of those turnips, and two loaves of bread," I say. "But I need to break a gold coin. Can you change it?"
"Let me see the coin first," she says.
I pull out one of my 1-gold coins and show her.
She nods. "I can break it. That'll be thirty-five silver for the food."
She takes my gold coin and starts counting out silver coins.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asks as she hands me the change.
"That obvious?"
"The clothes," she says, gesturing at my hoodie. "And you didn't haggle at all. Everyone haggles."
"I'm just hungry," I admit.
She snorts. "Well, you got fresh vegetables. Now get on."
I nod and move away from the stall, clutching my sack of food.
I find a relatively quiet corner near the edge of the market and sit down on a low stone wall.
I pull out a carrot and bite into it.
It's... a carrot.
Raw, crunchy, slightly sweet. Not amazing, but it's food and it's not poisoned.
I eat three carrots in quick succession, then tear off a chunk of bread.
The bread is dense and chewy, nothing like the soft white bread from home, but it fills my stomach.
As I eat, I watch the market. People going about their business. Normal life in this insane world.
I need to remember this. Not everything here is trying to kill me. Some things—like vegetables—are just vegetables.
Though knowing this world, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a murderous cabbage somewhere.
I finish eating, feeling somewhat better. My stomach is no longer trying to eat itself, at least.
I still have the rest of the food in the sack—enough for later, the vendor said. Good. I'll need it.
I check the position of the sun. It's lower now, later in the afternoon. I've been gone for more than an hour, which means Renna is probably waiting for me.
Time to go.
I stand, shoulder the sack of food, and head back toward the forge.
The Forgeheart Smithy looks the same as when I left it—smoke rising from the chimney, the sound of hammering echoing from inside. But as I approach, I see someone standing outside the front door.
Renna.
She's leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, and the moment I see her, my brain short-circuits for a second.
She's changed clothes.
Gone is the leather apron and work shirt from before. Now she's wearing what I can only describe as practical adventure gear—but gear that does absolutely nothing to hide her figure.
She has on a fitted leather vest that laces up the front, pulled tight to emphasize her curves. The vest is sleeveless, showing off her toned arms with those burn scars from forge work. Underneath the vest is a white shirt, but the neckline is low enough that I can see the curve of her cleavage where the vest pushes everything together.
Her pants are dark brown leather, fitted to her legs and hips in a way that makes it very clear she has thick thighs and a great ass.
Sturdy boots come up to her knees. Her auburn hair is still pulled back in that messy ponytail, with loose strands framing her face.
There's a tool belt slung low on her hips with a hammer and what looks like a chisel hanging from it. And she still has a smudge of soot on her cheek.
She looks hot. Capable and hot. Like she could either forge you a sword or kick your ass, and you'd thank her for both.
I'm staring again.
She notices.
"You're late," she says, her amber eyes narrowing.