By the time Lane got out of the forest, he was hungry, thirsty, and still felt uneasy about the Grinner. However, the sight of the town walls made him drop from a march to a walk and he felt himself smile despite his exhaustion.

Kingdom’s Peak was a small town at the edge of The Kingdom and from peak only had its name. Rather than in a mountain, Kingdom’s Peak settled on a valley surrounded by a mix of mountains, swamps, and rivers reaching a cold sea. In-between the town and its’ natural barriers laid an expanse of trees the locals saw fit to baptize as The Forest.

Hundred-some meters from the town were clear from trees, stones, and bushes courtesy of a combination of the Lord’s orders and his Father’s enforcement. At his feet, lay a path of small stones wide enough to allow two carriages side by side with some to spare.

That is where the order ended though.

As Lane walked to the gate of the town, he saw the underwhelming view of the Peak’s uneven walls and wondered how five thousand some souls fit in there. Five thousand or more, Lane thought. He didn’t care, nor did he knew but that was what the young miss said the count reached last winter and Lane was not going to say otherwise.

In any case, despite its shoddy look there was no doubt nor contest about the town being the northern edge of The Kingdom. A den of runaways and exiles, Lane thought, though Father and the Lord call it land for the brave to prove themselves, He finished with a scoff.

A whistle took him back to earth and he saw he had reached the gate while he was daydreaming. There, a pair of guards stood in attention wearing armor that stood out for being mismatched save for a patch of blue paint on the chest plates. The one on the right was tall and fat, the one on the left was short and skinny.

Rolf, the one on the right, was waving a hand at him.

“I see you got your Grinner,” Rolf said with a smile, pointing the skin hanging in a bundle from Lane’s bow, “your sister and the young Miss were looking for you. The Captain asked too, but he said it could wait till the night.”

“Dahlia?” Lane asked, his eyebrows rising together with the borders of his mouth.

“And Lena, and your Father,” Rolf answered with a smirk, “see that Mike? That’s the sound of a fool in honey.” He finished with a nod to the other guard.

“Would you not?” Mike answered, “Had I a chance with the lady do you think I’d be here watching the dust fly by?”

Rolf turned a bit and looked down on Mike raising one eyebrow. “Yes,” Rolf said.

“Well fuck you too!” Mike answered, “I ain’t such a fool to waste the missies’ good graces.”

“Anyway,” cut Rolf, facing Lane once more, “Seems like you finally decided to do something about it. Good for you lad.”

Lane, who had been listening to the exchange growing redder by the moment, shook his head.

“It’s okay boy, just make sure to tell them we sent you when you see them;” Said Rolf waving him inside the gate, “in any case, you may want to take that to a tanner before it dries wrong. The Broken Wagon, at the east-most corner of the market, is where I’d go.”

“Hu, th-thanks!” managed to answer Lane as Rolf ushered him past the gate. It took him a few meters until he realized Mike was still spouting about all the opportunities he would take if the chance presented itself to a nonchalant Rolf.

Twenty minutes later, Lane found himself standing at the end of the market looking with a frown at the store in front of him. It was a one-story building with no windows in sight and a wood panel hanging tilted from a single rusty nail above its’ entrance.

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Lane looked at the panel passing for a sign for the third time, squinted his eyes, and leaned forward. On its’ washed out gray paint, Lane managed to read

‘Th B ok gon’ and pursed his lips.

The front of the building was a collage of mismatch stones, broken bricks, and rotting planks crowned at the top with shards of broken bottles of different colors.

The entrance, at the very least, did justice to the store’s name by being the back half of a broken wagon covered with a linen curtain that went darker the lower he looked.

At the right of the store, was an alley that separated The Broken Wagon from a closed bar and leads to a dead end. However, other than the lack of urine reek usually found by bars, the alley was completely unremarkable.

At the left of the store, was an upholstery shop showing a varied assortment of chairs, tapestries, and coaches. In between its’ products, Lane saw mounts of taxidermies from different animals and beasts including even one of a small, brownish grinner.

Sitting on one of the coaches, an old man with white hair scowled and mumbled at a thick book stopping only to take an occasional sip from a small bottle he kept by his side.

“Um, excuse me,” Lane said as he walked to the old man, “I am looking for The Broken Wagon and was wondering, well, is that it?” He asked pointing at the shabby store.

The old man stopped reading, took a look at Lane, and then a peek at the store next door.

“Have you seen any others with the same name in the whole market?” The old man asked raising an eyebrow before turning to his book once more.

“W-wait! Is, could you tell me if the store deals with pelts? Is it trustworthy?” Lane said.

The old man put down his book, lifted his bottle trying to drink, and nothing came out. He scowled at Lane for a moment and then answered, “Coin,” and licked his lips, “gimme one drak and I’ll tell you what you want.” And stood there with his hand extended.

This time was Lanes’ turn to frown. While a drak was a gray coin with the lowest value there was, the lowest Lane carried was new, and worth five times that, to his count enough for a good breakfast. He was not lacking any money but neither liked the idea of giving the old man his coins.

However, what annoyed Lane the most was that, while the old man kept his hand extended towards Lane, his eyes kept darting sideways. One moment the old man looked to the Wagons’ entrance, and the next one to the bar. Still, let alone one old coin worth fifteen draks, the one worth five was better than waste the grinner’s pelt.

“Fine!” Lane said gritting his teeth, “Here is your coin.” And threw one gray coin with a silver band in the middle in the old man’s hand.

The old man caught the coin and smiled revealing a row of yellow teeth. Instead of answering, he took the coin to his mouth and chewed it only to spite it immediately.

“You’d rob an old man?” He growled at Lane.

“That’s worth five draks!” Lane said, his eyebrows rising.

“And I want a coin, none of that new crap you have these days.” complained the old man shaking his empty bottle.

Lane stared the coin on the ground and decided the sooner he finished here the better so he clicked his tongue and threw a 10 draks coin at the old man. This one was duller and completely gray.

The old man caught it, bit it, and smiled.

“Well?” Lane asked, and pointed at the grinner skin on his back, “Is the store worth it? Can they clean this one?”

The old man looked at Lane and shrugged, “Half Glare crafts all the pelts I use.” And went on to his coin.

“Half Glare?” Lane asked but when the old man extended his hand at him once more, Lane decided he could find out on his own.

With a scoff, Lane peeked at the merchandise exposed in the shop, this time paying more attention to its quality. Surprisingly, he found out the pelts were good, comparable to those in the castle, and looking even better in some cases.

The old man, hateful as he was, was a living testimony to their quality. Looking quite comfortable on his couch as he munched on the coin.

Lane looked at the coin on the floor and considered a moment but ended pursing his lips and walking to The Broken Wagon.

However, just as he was about to lift the linen curtain and enter someone came out and crashed into him resulting in both parties tangled in a mess on the floor.