Rat's feet felt strange as he entered the town gates. The leather boots, freshly looted from the dead knight, hugged his feet in a way his old ragged shoes never could. They weren't just boots; they were a second skin, soft but firm. He flexed his toes inside them as he stepped onto the cobbletone road, feeling the smooth stone beneath his feet, where his feet had once ached against hard leather.

The streets welcomed him back: the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the loud voice of a peddler hawking apples, the laughter of children running between wagons. But Rat's eyes barely noticed the colors and bustle above ground. His gaze was fixed downward, to where his new boots made their first journey across the town.

The cobblestones were uneven, worn smooth in places by generations of passing feet and carwheels. Between the stones, narrow cracks were filled with dirt, stray straw, and the occasional gleam of a copper coin long pressed into the stone. The boots felt the shift of each stone under him. His old shoes would've stumbled on this uneven path, the soles too thin to protect against the sharp jut of a stubborn cobblestone. But these boots, oh, they were different. They guided his steps as if the road itself were yielding to their authority. Rat let a grin form at the end of his lips. „Nice boots for a nobody,“ he muttered to himself.

He passed a puddle left by the morning rain, its surface moving on the soft breeze. His reflection wavered for a moment before his new boots stepped through it, removing the image. The leather didn't soak up the water, something new for a change.

The boots carried him into the busy market square, where the ground turned gritty beneath his feet. A thin layer of sand and ash covered the stone, remnants of spilled gods and the tread of countless wagons. Rat felt the shift underfoot, the subtle crunch of grit as the boots pressed it deeper into the shape of the stones.

Just like the dead on the battlefield, the ground here told its own stories. Scattered peels of bruised fruit lay trampled and browning. A wet smear of something that Rat couldn't recognize glistened under the sun. Rat paused to step over it, not wanting to step into it with his new boots. His old shoes would've soaked up the muck, clinging to it like a stray dog to scraps.

The stalls around him spilled over with goods, their owners shouting over one another. „Ripe pears! Sweet as a maiden's kiss!“ one woman yelled, while another argued loudly with a customer over the price of salt. Rat's eyes locked at them briefly, but his focus returned to the ground as a wheelbarrow went past, its iron-rimmed wheel leaving a thin line in the dirt. The boots stepped carefuly aside, their agility surprising him.

He imagined the female knight who'd worn these boots before him, moving confidently through a place like this. Perhaps the woman had been here once, her polished heels moving fast, her head held high. Did these boots remember that? Could they feel the difference in their new master, the way Rat's feet felt the difference?

The noise of the square faded behind him. In the alley the ground shifted again. The cobblestones disappeared, and damp earth embraced him,cool beneath the boots. A trail of muddy footprints led deeper into the shadows, their edges sharp and fresh. Rat's steps followed them, his boots leaving their own imprint beside the others. He glanced down to see a broken shard of pottery sticking up from the dirt. His old shoes would’ve snagged on it, tearing further, but the boots brushed past without a scratch. He grinned again, a small, private smile of satisfaction. “Didn’t think I’d ever own anything this fine,” he murmured.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Rat pushed open an old wooden door at the end of the alley, its iron hinges creaking loudly making him wince. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, a single oil lamp casting long shadows across shelves filled with odds and ends: tarnished goblets, chipped daggers, tiny glass bottles filled with suspiciously dark liquids, etc. It smelled bad, like old leather, and like dried blood.

Behind the cluttered counter stood a small man with a sharp nose and thin, gray hair that stuck out beneath a greasy cap. He was bent over a set of scales, squinting through big glasses that looked too big for his face. He didn’t glance up as Rat entered, only mumbled, “If it’s stolen, don’t tell me. If it’s cursed, definitely don’t tell me.”

Rat chuckled softly, closing the door behind him. “Always the same speech,” he thought to himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Kraal.”

The man finally looked up, his blue eyes looked to Rat’s boots before narrowing suspiciously. “Those are new,” he said, pointing a bony finger. “What poor lad did you nick those off of?”

“Knight,” Rat replied casually, stepping closer to the counter. “Didn’t need them where she was going.”

Kraal snorted, the sound harsh and wet. “War’s a fine thing for folk like us. Brings all the shiny things out to the surface. What’ve you got for me today?”

Rat put down his pack, dropping it onto the counter with a heavy sound. Kraal’s eyes lit up like a starving man before a banquet. Rat pulled the drawstring loose and began laying out his loot: a few dented helms, a handful of silver rings, and a longsword with a nicked blade. Kraal picked each item up with nimble fingers, turning them over, sniffing here and there as if he could smell their worth.

“Silver’s decent,” Kraal muttered, weighing one of the rings in his palm. “Helms are shite. Too dented. Can’t sell them to anyone with a brain. The sword…” He trailed off, tapping the blade. “Well, some idiot’ll buy it.”

Rat leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as he watched Kraal haggle with himself, muttering numbers under his breath. He’d heard this routine a dozen times before and knew better than to interrupt.

“You know,” Kraal said suddenly, looking up, “it’s getting harder to sell battlefield scraps. Too many bodies, not enough buyers. Every fool with a stomach for death thinks they’re a looter now.”

Rat smirked. “Then maybe you should’ve taken up farming, Kraal.”

The old man laughed, short and bitter. “And let some lord take half my yield for taxes? No, thanks. I’ll stick to the filth I know.” He pointed at Rat’s pile of goods. “Five coppers for the lot.”

“Five?” Rat looked surprised. “That sword’s worth three on its own!”

“It was,” Kraal said, wiggling his finger at the nicked blade. “Before whoever owned it last used it to hack at rocks. Five’s generous.”

“Seven,” Rat countered, narrowing his eyes.

“Six and a loaf of bread,” Kraal said.

“Deal,” Rat accepted defeat, knowing he wouldn’t win. Kraal swept the items into a sack, tossing six coins and a stale-looking loaf onto the counter in exchange.

As Rat reached for the bread, Kraal’s eyes caught onto something around his neck. He froze, his sharp nose twitching. “Hold on,” he said, leaning closer. “What’s that?”

Rat’s hand instinctively moved to the silver chain beneath his tunic, his fingers curling around it, protecting it. “Nothing.”

“Nothing my arse. Let me see.”

Rat hesitated, but Kraal was already moving around the counter, his bony fingers grasping at the chain.

Rat batted his hand away, but not before the pendant slipped free, catching the dim light. It was small, elegant, a teardrop of polished obsidian framed by delicate silver filigree. It didn’t match anything else Rat owned—too refined, too expensive.

Kraal whistled. “Well, well. That’s a beauty. Where’d you get it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rat said, tucking it back under his tunic.

“Matters to me,” Kraal said. “Rat, you’ve got no business wearing something like that. Let me take it off your hands. I’ll give you twenty coppers.”

Rat shook his head. “It’s not for sale.”

“Fifty, then,” Kraal said, his eyes gleaming. “You could eat for a month on fifty coppers.”

“I said no.” Rat’s voice was firm.

Kraal raised his hands in mock surrender, but the hunger in his eyes hadn’t faded. “Suit yourself. Just seems a shame for something so fine to hand around your neck.”

Rat ignored him, pulling his pack onto his shoulder. “Thanks for the bread, Kraal.”

As he stepped outside, the cool air hit his face, and the noise of the alley swallowed him again. Rat’s hand went to the pendant, his fingers tracing its smooth surface through the fabric of his tunic. He thought of the knight on the field, her body still warm when he’d pulled the chain from her neck. Her skin had been soft, unmarred by the callouses of labor or the scars of war. It had unsettled him, how human she’d seemed in death.

He shook the thought away and focused on the boots carrying him forward, one step at a time.