For two weeks, the village ran on resin and sore shoulders.

  We went out three times for sap. Same routine each trip: sunrise chill, the creak of harness leather, buckets knocking together. We tapped trees, filled buckets, joked about whose arms would fall off first. Nothing leapt from the bushes. No warg tracks cut the mud. Just birds and the slow drip of sap.

  Uneventful. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or restless.

  Beakly returned on the fourth day like a one-bird feast wagon.

  Finn spotted him first.

  “Count Chocobo’s back! Mam, look—he’s got a whole boar!”

  Beakly trotted through the gate, feathers glossy with river mist, a grumbleboar slung across his back like an offering to some battlefield god. Blood streaked his talons. His eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction.

  Finn whooped.

  “He brought it all by himself! Did you see? He didn’t even wobble!”

  Kids swarmed the fence, cheering. Beakly slowed, neck arching. If a bird could bow, he did.

  The next day he dropped off a second carcass. Two days later, a third. By then half the children had composed elaborate stories about how he hunted them in single combat.

  Finn ran past me, wooden sword raised.

  “Count Chocobo versus the Boar King of the North!”

  “Promotion already,” I muttered. “Good for him.”

  While Beakly upgraded his legend, I tried to upgrade my competence.

  “Can you make me something that doesn’t bleed?” I cornered Kael by his forge, gesturing with the warhammer. “About my height. Broad shoulders. No opinions.”

  “You want a training dummy.”

  “Target dummy. But sure.”

  He rubbed his jaw.

  “Old fence posts and some straw. Might do. You’ll smash it to bits.”

  “That’s the dream.”

  Three days later, a crude man-shape stood in the packed dirt behind the forge. Burlap skin, straw stuffing, old shield strapped to one arm.

  Harn wandered by as I squared up.

  “Try not to… you know.”

  I gave him a flat look.

  “Perform?”

  His ears went red.

  “Just hit the thing, Emily.”

  So I did.

  Morning and evening, between sap runs and helping Mara strain fat and resin, I hammered that dummy. First my swings flailed wild, overbalanced, dragging my shoulders. My palms blistered.

  Beakly watched from the fence one afternoon, head tilted.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I huffed, dragging the hammer back up. “Some of us can’t solo a boar with our face.”

  He ruffled his feathers in a slow wave and let out a mournful croak that sounded too much like sympathy.

  “Traitor.”

  I planted my feet, focused on the dummy’s center mass, and drove the hammer in a short, tight arc. The impact jolted up my arms but the head stayed on line.

  Better. Not good. But better.

  I drew back for another strike when a shout broke across the yard.

  “Tamsin’s here! The cart’s back!”

  The hammer paused over my shoulder.

  Finn’s voice carried over the clatter of running feet.

  “The merchant lady! Mam, Tamsin’s come!”

  Kael straightened from his anvil, sweat streaking soot on his neck.

  “About time.”

  The village gates boomed as they swung wide. Hooves and cart wheels rattled on the hard-packed lane, a new rhythm cutting through the usual sounds of hammers and hens.

  I lowered the warhammer and leaned on it, chest heaving, watching dust and voices pull toward the front of the village.

  By the time I reached the gate, half the village had already clustered there.

  The cart creaked through first—a squat, two-wheeled thing piled higher than seemed safe, canvas bundles roped in tight. A dun mule leaned into the traces, ears flicking at the noise. Behind it walked a woman with a scarf-wrapped head and windburned cheeks, one hand on the cart’s rim like she didn’t quite trust it not to bolt without her.

  Her eyes went straight to the fence.

  She slowed, palm brushing the resin-darkened posts near the gate. Knuckles rapped once, twice, like she knocked on a door.

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  “That’s new.”

  Mayor Brody hovered near her elbow.

  “Reinforced. Courtesy of our… guest.”

  He jerked his chin toward me.

  Tamsin’s gaze tracked over. Quick, bright, measuring. It skimmed my old shirt, the bruising still yellowing at my throat, lingered on the warhammer in my hand, then returned to the fence.

  “You painted the bones,” she murmured, fingertips tracing a seam where old wood met new brace. “About time someone did.”

  Elspeth squeezed in beside her, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Tamsin, this is Emily. Emily, Tamsin Reed. Brings us things we miss and takes our coin with a smile.”

  “That’s a cruel slander,” Tamsin answered, mouth twitching. “Sometimes I take your cheese as well.”

  Her attention snapped back to me.

  “You’re the one who taught them this trick?”

  I shifted the hammer to lean against my shoulder.

  “Recipe, yes. Work, no. They did the heavy lifting.”

  “Modest.” She tapped the post again, listening to the pitch. “Or honest. Hard to tell from one sentence. Either way, anyone who convinces a village to invest in defense instead of hoping the roads stay quiet gets a discount. New customer rates.”

  My eyebrows rose.

  “You haven’t even seen my coin.”

  “I’ve seen your fence.” She clapped her hands once, brisk. “Let me park the cart before your boy climbs into it.”

  Too late. Finn already hovered near the back wheel, eyes round. At her look he froze, then stepped back with exaggerated care.

  “I wasn’t touching anything.”

  “Of course you weren’t.” Tamsin clicked her tongue at the mule and steered the cart toward the square. “Bring your leather and such if you’ve got it, Brody. The road’s been thin. I’m in the mood to buy.”

  The square transformed fast. Kael arrived with a roll of boarhide over one shoulder. Harn lugged a sack that clinked like rocks, because it was. Two boys struggled under the weight of mossy warg pelts, faces red with effort and pride.

  Tamsin flipped down a side plank from her cart, turning it into an impromptu counter. Canvas came off in practiced motions, revealing layers: jars, wrapped bundles, a stack of folded cloth, the gleam of metal fittings.

  “Line, please,” she called, not looking up as she unlatched a wooden chest. “Those with things to sell on the left, hopeful spenders on the right, anyone just here to sigh at what they can’t afford in the middle where I can ignore you all at once.”

  The crowd rearranged itself in a shuffle of boots and laughter.

  I drifted closer to the cart. Old habit: check the shop before you touch your gold.

  There were paper packets of seeds, the names inked in a cramped hand. Spools of dyed thread. A little pile of brass buckles and rings. A shallow tray held a jumble of oddities—bone dice, a cracked amulet, a compass with a spiderweb chip across its glass.

  Next to that lay a hinged box lined with straw. In it, nestled like teeth, sat neat rows of buttons carved from curved ivory.

  Not ivory. Boar tusk.

  Each piece had been sliced, sanded into a smooth disc, edges rounded, two tiny holes drilled clean through. The creamy surface still held the faint grain lines of the original tusk.

  My fingers hovered over them.

  Of course. Low-level tailoring quest chain. “Make something useful from every part of the beast.” The moment clicked in my memory like a mouse over a tooltip.

  Past the buttons, in the cart’s shadow, a wooden crate held small glass vials cradled in straw. Most were empty. A couple near the top gave off a muted glow, like fireflies bottled and pissed off about it. Each stoppered vial contained faintly luminous liquid, the color of crushed glowgourd flesh. No heat, no flicker. Just a steady, patient light.

  My throat tightened.

  I knew this as well. Glowgourd lantern vials.

  Kael laid his roll of leather on the cart’s edge.

  “Grumbleboar. Fresh tanned. You’ll not find better in three villages.”

  Tamsin ran her thumb along the grain, pushed her knuckles into it, checking the give.

  “This from the little rout at your fence last week?”

  His mouth curled.

  “With help.”

  She gave a noncommittal grunt that still sounded like approval.

  “Good thickness. Clean work. I’ll take the lot.”

  Harn hefted his sack up next. Stones spilled out—smooth, rounded, some still faintly stained at one edge.

  “Maw-stones from the wargs,” he offered.

  Tamsin sifted a handful, the pebbles clicking in her palm.

  “Haven’t seen this many from Oakhaven in years.” She let them tumble back into the sack. “You’re either very brave or very foolish to poke around their riverbeds.”

  “Mostly foolish,” Harn muttered.

  She almost smiled.

  “Good. Brave people get themselves killed. Foolish ones live long enough to learn.”

  She struck deals in quick bursts—this much leather for that many coins and a tin of salve, these pelts for a bundle of salt and a spool of thread. With each new hide or stone her eyebrows crawled a little higher.

  “I leave you lot alone for a season and come back to find you harvesting monsters,” she mused, weighing a mossy pelt. “If you keep this up, I might have to put you back on my regular route.”

  Between customers, I picked up one of the glowing vials.

  The glass felt warm from the sun, not the contents. I turned it, watching the liquid cling to the sides in a slow roll. Someone had added a touch too much ash or not enough pulp; the glow pooled faintly yellow at the bottom when still.

  I could fix that. I knew exactly how.

  “These do well?” I asked.

  Tamsin glanced over from counting out coins into Elspeth’s hand.

  “The lights?”

  I tipped the vial.

  “Non-burning glow, no spellwork. Ship-safe, cart-safe, kid-proof unless they throw them at each other.”

  “They do more than well.” She filled Elspeth’s palm and closed her fingers over the stack. “Caravans will pay stupid money not to sleep next to a lantern that might set their wheels on fire. Miners too. I sell out by the next large town, every time.”

  “And the buttons?” I nodded at the tusk discs. “Boar’s not exactly rare.”

  “Rarity doesn’t matter. City folk decide something is fashionable and suddenly they all think their coats need to rattle like a butcher’s stall.” She plucked up a button, flipped it between thumb and forefinger, then dropped it back. “Tusk shines up pretty, takes dye if you’re patient. Cheap to carry, high to sell. I like them.”

  The numbers ran themselves in my head. Boar fat became resin and soap. Tusks became buttons. Glowgourd scraps became light. All low-tier, all here.

  “If someone”—I rolled the vial again—“could make a lot of these, and the buttons, on a regular basis, what would ‘well’ look like?”

  Her eyes narrowed, interested now.

  “How many is ‘a lot’?”

  “Crate of lanterns every time you come through, at least. Same for buttons. More, once we set up a decent workflow.”

  “That so.”

  She leaned her weight on the cart, studying me like a particularly interesting piece of gear.

  “You make them yourself?”

  “I can teach others. Recipe’s straightforward once you know the ratios. Raw materials aren’t a problem.”

  “Glass is.” She nudged the crate with one boot. “I can carry only so many empties without giving up more profitable stock.”

  “If you front the glass, we handle everything from there,” I pushed. “You keep… what, a quarter?”

  Tamsin barked a laugh.

  “You’re new to this.”

  “Thirty, then.”

  “I take the road risks,” she countered. “Bandits, taxes, broken wheels, bored guards with sticky fingers. I store them, I haggle in markets you’ll never see. I find buyers when your village has forgotten you made them. For that, I keep four of ten. You keep six. Done properly, you’ll still be tripping over coin.”

  Forty percent. Fair, for someone else tanking the overhead and danger. My inner min-maxer twitched. My inner exhausted resident thought about not having to leave the village at all to fund it.

  I extended my hand.

  “Deal.”

  She clasped it once, firm, then turned and rummaged under the cart’s bench. Glass clinked.

  “Lucky for you,” drifted her voice from inside the tangle of bags, “I overpacked this time.”

  She emerged with a shallow wooden box, both arms under it. Inside, nestled in straw, lay neat ranks of empty vials, each with a snug cork stopper. The faint chemical tang of glass and dust rose up.

  “Starter stock.” She shifted it toward me. “Consider it a welcome gift. And a promise that if you flood my cart with good product, I won’t complain.”

  The box took both my hands. The vials chimed as they settled, a clear, eager sound.

  Finn edged closer, eyes shining.

  “Are those for more glow lights?”

  “They’re for work,” I answered. “Lots of it.”

  Tamsin watched us over the cart, the corners of her mouth curling.