Cedric finally called for a stop on their pastry tour in front of a two-storey house one street over from the main road, where they could just see the edge of the village green before the bridge. Beside the house, a small smithy was set up under an extended shingled roof. The forge itself was up against the house’s stone wall, with a tall brick chimney rising above it and a trio of troughs sitting beside it.

The place looked just about what Alex had in mind when it came to pre-industrial smithing: rough and dirty with a pair of anvils as the centerpieces and barrels full of nails and horseshoes and hoe-heads piled all around. Workbenches held hammers and tongs of all sizes; two grinding wheels sat on the dirt floor. The bitter smell of hot iron lay heavy in the air.

And, of course, the whole thing wouldn’t look complete without a stocky bald man with a wiry beard and shoulders like a roided-out bull working at it.

“I thought I heard that gaggle of children being louder than usual,” the man who could only be Master Bryon grated, then he dunked the short piece of iron in his hand into a trough. The water gave out a sizzling hiss, and the smith’s large figure was nearly obscured with the vapor. Then he pulled it out of that trough and placed it into the other one—some kind of oil, this time.

When he moved aside to speak with them, his bald head was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and water, and his black beard sparkled with dew. He eyed the five of them and the boars inside the wagon with a particular look of distaste before turning to Cedric.

“It figures you finally brought the monsters then, chaser?” Wearing nothing but roughspun pants and a heavy leather apron over his barrel-like chest, the smith cut an imposing figure when he scowled. “Been lazing about the village too long with that other lot you showed up with. The Festival starts the day after tomorrow, you know.”

Cedric’s thousand watt smile didn’t waver a bit. “Worry not, my good man,” he said. “Delivered on time as promised. The day after tomorrow is still two days away, no?”

The smith huffed, turned away, and stepped back to the forge. Alex watched as he pulled out another iron rod from its depths with his bare hands, the lower half of the piece still glowing red-orange with heat, and repeated the quenching process with it.

“Leave the wagon there and be on your way, then,” Bryon said through another cloud of vapor. “Tell Orson his fat arse was right. He’ll give you your pay.”

Cedric waited for Bryon to continue for another moment, then shrugged when nothing was forthcoming. “As you say, master smith. We’ll be on the Bedstone if you need us, then.”

The smith didn’t turn to look, just waved them off.

They got about ten feet away before Alex had to ask, “Shouldn’t he have been wearing gloves or something? He was grabbing that thing like it’s nothing.”

“He probably doesn’t need to,” Cedric said, leading the group toward the village green through narrow alleys between houses. Like the road to the dungeon, the streets in the village weren’t paved or cobbled, just dirt hard-packed by traffic. “Most blacksmiths in small villages like this are Warriors by class, they just path that direction after someone unseals it from their sight. Usually a parent or a mentor. Or themselves, if they’re lucky enough. Likely he has—”

“I’d bet he has some form of fire resistance,” Daven butted in, walking beside his sister in front of Alex.

“Or a trace to make his skin tougher,” Valerian added. Somehow as they left Lady and the wagon behind, the large man had ended up at the back of the crew with Alex. “Or something that makes it easier and less dangerous to work iron. There’s a hundred different ways for that.”

“You can never tell the Gates a person has opened or the traces they can use because of those Gates until they tell you about it or you see them use it. Always good to keep that in mind.” Cedric glanced back over his shoulder. “Talking to you, eh, Daven. That’ll be on the test too.”

Diana chuckled, and the archer glared at his sister, red on his cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah, I already know that one, man,” he said. “Don’t need to rub the earlier miss in.”

Up ahead, the houses opened up to an open patch of ankle-height grass dotted with trees hugging the side of the Dunnser, large enough to easily accommodate a hundred or more people without crowding the place too much. There weren’t that many villagers there as Alex and the crew skirted the center of the green through a small dirt path, but work was certainly being done by dozens of men and women erecting small wooden shacks, bringing out rows of tables and benches, and stacking up kegs and barrels of booze until they stood higher than a man was tall.

They made it past the green without much fanfare, the smell of fresh water growing in Alex’s nose the closer they got to the river. The Riverbenders seemed to be very much work-minded people who were satisfied with giving them a nod and a wave as they focused on their tasks, and the children who’d followed them had slipped away after they stopped at the smithy.

The bridge they came to seemed in line with what Alex had seen in the village so far. It was a simple but solid affair with squat stone foundations on each bank and a body of wood stretching across the river, wide enough two wagons could just squeeze through together.

The Dunnser was narrower at this point, and it's dark waters ran placidly beneath their feet as they crossed it. The burbling sound of the current lapping at the stones on the shores combined with the clamor of simple village work being done behind them was so pleasant it would fit right into the background of a Hollywood movie.

Alex was surprised at the sturdiness of it too, as the wood barely sagged an inch with all their weight. Still, he waited for them to step off the other side before he turned to Valerian. “So, are you a Warrior too, then?” Alex asked, shooting a meaningful glance at the large shield strapped to Valerian’s back.

Before the man could even think of answering, Daven rounded on Alex. “Are you kidding?” he said. “Val here’s a Paladin. He’s not a first-rank peasant like the rest of us.” The archer let out a jovial laugh and slapped Valerian on the shoulder.

At least he does it with everyone, Alex thought, then said, “Huh. I don’t think I’ve met someone of the second-rank before.”

“Then you’ve met two now.” Cedric had stopped a little ways ahead by a line of trees. He had a thumb pointing at his own chest. “I’m a second-ranked warrior too, a Lancer. Now come on, it’s way past lunch time for me.”

Hidden behind the clump of tall willows that stretched by the riverside was easily the largest building in town. It was three-storeys high, built in the same style as all the other houses except for its first floor, which was entirely erected with white river stones. A wooden plaque depicting a man sleeping on a stone bed hung over the front doors.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

They had arrived at the Bedstone inn.

Inside, Cedric wasted no time going up to the portly man standing behind the bar, while Daven led Alex and the rest of the crew toward a smaller table on the back of the room, past the smattering of people talking and digging at their own food.

“Don’t mind the deadness of the place,” Daven said, dropping down on his seat. Diana sat next to her brother, but she immediately pulled out her Siren stake and seemed to zone out of the conversation. “It gets crowded in the evenings. S’what happens when there’s only the one inn to drink at.”

Alex hummed, sitting himself across from his fellow mage. “What’s the usual fare here, then?” he asked.

Daven’s eyes lit up. “Oh man, you need to try their bacon trencher.” He leaned over the table like an excited doodle. “It comes with freshly baked bread and a nice rounding of eggs and cheese to really pull you in. But the bacon, Alex, the bacon….” He made an exaggerated ‘oooh’ sound that rumbled in his chest.

“You have an actual addiction to breakfast food,” Diana said, snorting. Her eyes never left the rune-carved piece of wood.

“It’s not my fault that’s the best kinda food, is it?”

“Oh I could go for some bacon,” Alex said, and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. “You have no idea.”

“It’s decided, then.” Daven slapped his palms down on the table. “Bacon for everyone today. Actually, make it so it’s bacon for the whole crew forever. We’re a bacon-only crew now.”

Alex chuckled, and Diana had a smile at the corner of her lips even as she shook her head.

As they talked, Valerian had been sitting silently at the head of the table. He had a large coin in one of his hands, a dull iron thing so dark it could almost pass as black, and he twirled it between his fingers as easily as an experienced player would with a poker chip. A bird of some kind showed on one side mid flight, while the other seemed completely blank. His eyes stared away into the middle distance, looking at nothing in particular as he played with the coin.

For the first time, Alex stopped to really look at the man. The paladin was obsidian made flesh, from the midnight black of his skin, his close-cropped hair and shaven chin, to the solidness of his stance, even just sitting across a table. The only thing that broke the image were the staring eyes, so black and uninterested they looked as if they had lost any and all of their light.

Before Alex could note anything further, Valerian stood up suddenly. “I’ll be eating in my room,” he said, then made it for the stairs after signaling the innkeeper.

Alex watched him go in silence.

“Don’t worry about him,” Daven piped up. “He’s the big brooding solitary type. Besides, he only does the coin trick to look cool in front of me. He can’t compete with my natural charisma.”

“Right,” Alex said.

He doubted Valerian was the type of person who did anything just to look cool, but he tried not to think too much about it. He had his own problems to occupy his mind. In this case, the matter of money. Getting to civilization was all well and good, but how would he be paying for all of it? Sure, he still felt his wallet in his back pocket, and he knew there was at least some fifty dollars on it—and his credit card too. But that would be of no use here. So how?

Alex knew the answer. He just had to do it and not think of it. Pulling a move out of Valerian’s book, Alex stood up in a jolt just as Cedric finished speaking with the innkeeper and mayor of Riverbend, Mayor Orson. The lancer had moved to the side of the bar to speak with a young woman wearing a kerchief over her head.

“Where are you going?” Daven asked.

“I’ll be right back,” Alex simply said, moving down the length of the common room before the archer could say anything else. The inn was a cleaner place than Alex had expected, with speckless tables and scrubbed floors and not a sign of dust around, but the smell of old sweat and cheap alcohol still permeated the air like a piece of gum that refused to peel off.

The innkeeper noticed him coming before Alex made it to the high-topped bar. “How can I help you, son?” Mayor Orson asked. He had a gravelly, wizened voice to match the full head of white hair receding from his brow. Great white mustaches hung over his upper lip all the way down to his chin.

“I’m looking for room and board for a few days,” Alex said, leaning over the countertop. “How much am I looking at here?”

“Two silver marks for a week’s stay with two hot meals everyday,” he said, and Alex couldn’t hide his reaction well enough. Orson gave him a look and let out a low chuckle. “Ah, don’t worry lad, guests don’t pay for food here in Riverbend during the week of the Selection Festival, so you’re down to a silver mark for the week. With all the food and drink you can stomach.”

He patted his own gut as if to illustrate. Orson’s belly was indeed wide, stretching the grease-stained apron he wore to the brink; but it was no wider than his shoulders. The man had been strong before he grew plump.

One silver mark. He had none, of course. But he might have something better. Pursing his lips, Alex let the last threads of sentimentality dissolve in the face of his new reality and reached for his chest. But before he could, something clinked on the wooden counter in front of him.

“There,” Cedric said from across the bar. The young woman with the kerchief he was talking with watched the interaction with red cheeks from the staff-side of the countertop, her peach-colored eyes sparkling with delight. “You earned it.”

Stunned, Alex glanced down at the small, nickel-sized silver coin and frowned. The last thing he wanted was to be indebted to Cedric financially on top of everything. “Look, I—”

“I just got paid,” the leader of the crew said with a charming smile. “Just take it, no strings attached.” He winked and turned back to his conversation with the barmaid, as if to emphasize the stringlessness of the offer.

Alex paused, then gave a firm nod when he had a better idea. “Thanks,” he muttered, picking up the coin and sliding it into his jean’s pocket. If there were truly no strings attached, then he was better off saving the local currency for later. This time, he reached into the collar of his shirt unimpeded.

Orson had a bushy eyebrow raised as Alex pulled out the locket and unlatched it from the collar. He held the old keepsake in his hand for a moment, its weight heavier than it had any right to be. I don’t care. I don’t. Before he could change his mind, Alex showed it to the innkeeper.

“How much can I get for this?” he asked. “It’s real silver.”

Humming thoughtfully, Orson extended an open hand. “May I?”

Alex dropped the locket into the man’s callused hands. The innkeeper looked carefully at the piece, poked and prodded it before finally pulling it up to his mouth and getting his teeth in on the action too.

“Real silver,” Orson agreed. “There’s not enough of it to make a halo, but with the craftsmanship of it….” He thumbed the small leaf-engravings on the locket’s edges and nodded to himself. “Aye lad. A full silver halo it is. I’d ask if you’re sure you want to sell this, but I know the look of a man who’s made a decision.”

Alex swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He tried to speak but couldn't form the words. So he settled for a nod.

Orson put a hand beneath his apron, reached into the inner side of his pants, where from the looks of it a small purse hung from his belt, and pulled out a large silver coin from it. Deftly, he flicked it into the air toward Alex, who snatched it from the air.

“Good business, lad,” Orson said, but Alex already had his eyes trained on the coin.

A halo, by what the man said, and it was certainly large enough to be worth more than a silver mark. A hooded man dominated one face of the coin, a fatherly smile on his lips even as his eyes were shadowed by the hood. On the other, six stars formed a silver constellation, with the words The League of Free Republics engraved beneath.

“Oh.” That was Orson again. When Alex looked up, the locket was open in the innkeeper’s hands. A slip of color showed inside. “By the First,” the man breathed. “This painting… it’s beautiful.”

Unbidden, Alex’s eyes turned to it. It wasn’t a painting, he knew, but a tiny picture of a family in all-formal clothes. The father had a dark suit on, the mother a flowing dress, and the siblings sitting in front of them looked more like dolls than anything. But the older sister’s smile was wide and wicked, an arm slung over her younger brother’s shoulders. The smile was the only thing that made the picture and the people within look real.

“Do you want it back?” Orson asked, an annoying look of pity on his weathered face.

Glancing at the family for the last time, his knuckles clenched white, Alex simply shook his head. “Keep it.”