With a handful of coins and a new, dangerous secret, our first priority was to stop looking like victims. Dignity, I was learning, was a form of armour in this city.

  After grabbing some street food—small river fish skewered on a stick and burnt to a crisp—we went looking for clothes.

  The first shop was a tailor called "Gilded Garments." The owner, a man with a pinched face and clothes worth more than my last ten lifetimes combined, took one look at our rags and sneered. "We have nothing for your kind. Be off before I summon the Guard."

  ‘What a prick,’ Ronan muttered.

  ‘Let's keep moving,’ I projected, forcing a brightness I didn't feel. ‘Try the leather shop.’

  The second shop smelled of rich dyes, but the welcome was no warmer. The proprietor, a burly woman with arms like tree trunks, blocked the door. "No scraps for beggars. Move along."

  Frustration settled in my gut like a stone. Two gold coins in my pouch, and I still couldn't buy a shred of respect.

  I was about to give up when I saw a smaller storefront tucked between a bakery and a jeweller. The sign was simple, carved from dark wood: "The Worn Path Outfitters."

  Expecting a third rejection, I pushed the door open. A small bell chimed. The place smelled of old, comforting things: worn leather, wool, and beeswax. It was cluttered but clean, filled with gear for people who actually worked for a living.

  Behind the counter stood an old man with gentle wrinkles and weary eyes. He looked up and smiled. "Welcome, lad. What can an old man do for you?"

  The genuine greeting threw me off balance. "I... I need clothes," I stammered. "Just one set. Sturdy stuff for the road."

  "Aye, that I have." He came around the counter. As he held a grey tunic to my frame, he paused, a sad look entering his eyes. "You have a similar build to my Arin at your age... Same thin shoulders." He sighed, a sound full of permanent ache. "He was an adventurer. Went into the Gloom five years ago... never came back."

  He gathered a set of traveller's clothes—blue trousers, the grey tunic, a warm undershirt. "This will see you right. Call it two silver."

  It was a fair price. As I reached for my coin, he held up a hand. "Tell you what. Let's call it one. For... for an old man's sentiment."

  Before I could protest, he pulled out a worn, well-oiled leather belt. "A good belt is the foundation. This was Arin's. You take it. It deserves a journey."

  I took the clothes and the belt, my mind churning. For centuries, kindness had been a currency used to buy loyalty or a future betrayal. I looked for the angle. The hook.

  I found nothing. Just a grieving father offering a kindness.

  ‘See, Murphy?’ Ronan whispered. ‘This is it. Not gods or battles. Just this. The light from one good man.’

  I stepped outside. The belt felt heavy. A debt I couldn't repay.

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  "Forgot something," I mumbled.

  I walked back in. The old man was arranging blankets. I moved quickly, slipping a silver coin onto the counter when he wasn't looking.

  Dignity was one thing; survival was another. With clothes on our backs, we needed steel.

  We found Irondeep Armaments down a side street that smelled of coal smoke. A massive stone anvil hung above the door. Inside, the air was hot and dry, smelling of ozone and serious business.

  I passed a cracked mirror and stopped. The face staring back was a stranger—gaunt, sharp angles, with a nasty scar running down the left cheek.

  "Jeez, we look bad," I muttered. ‘How old is this body?’

  ‘Sixteen seems reasonable,’ Ronan replied clinically.

  ‘A 'settled' skeleton is still just a skeleton. I'd be surprised if we can lift a sword.’

  Our focus shifted to the walls lined with weapons. Ronan was immediately excited. ‘See that? An estoc! Designed to pierce mail!’

  "I'm not duelling anyone," I grumbled. A longsword cost thirty gold. We had one and some silver.

  An old instinct took over. Why pay when you can take?

  As we passed a rack of daggers, I brushed against a hilt. Mine. A faint shimmer, and it was gone.

  Ronan went silent. A wall of ice slammed down in my mind.

  ‘Let's go,’ I projected.

  Outside, Ronan's voice was cold steel. ‘Put it back. Now.’

  ‘It's a tool, Ronan. A nine-gold dagger for free. We're broke.’

  ‘That is theft. It is the path of a common cut-purse. There is no honour in it.’

  ‘Honour doesn't fill our stomachs!’

  ‘Then you survive without me,’ he stated. ‘If this is what you choose, you do it alone. Good luck figuring out how to Awaken a Core by yourself.’

  ‘You wouldn't dare!’

  ‘Try me.’

  He walled himself off. A block of silent, stubborn ice.

  My denial turned to rage, then panic. Without him, I was a cripple with a magic bag.

  ‘Fine!’ I projected. ‘You win.’

  Back in the shop, I placed the dagger on the rack.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ronan said, the ice thawing. ‘And for the record, it had a tracer rune. We'd have been caught instantly.’

  I stood there, speechless. His "honourable" way was also the smart way. I hated it.

  ‘That Core is not for sale,’ Ronan added. ‘We need it to Awaken.’

  My gaze drifted to a barrel marked "Scrap & Forging Stock."

  I pulled out three pieces of junk: a notched longsword, a bent shortsword, and an unfinished knife blank. I grabbed a pristine buckler from a display.

  "How much for the buckler?" I asked the dwarf. "And the scrap?"

  "Six gold for the shield," he grunted. "Three for the scrap."

  "Six for the buckler? I'll give you four."

  "Price is six."

  "Fine. Six for the shield, if you throw in the scrap for one gold. Seven total."

  "Make it eight."

  "Done!" I said, then slumped. "Ah, hell. I don't have eight."

  I pushed the shield back. "Tell you what. I'll just take the scrap for the one gold we agreed on. I'll come back for the shield."

  The dwarf stared. He replayed the conversation, realised he'd been conned into valuing his scrap at a third of its price, and laughed. "You've got a serpent's tongue, lad. Fine."

  I paid the gold.

  ‘These blades are broken,’ Ronan complained.

  ‘They just need to cut,’ I replied. ‘And they will.’

  We left the district with clothes and weapons. Now: food.

  The market smelled of fresh bread and roasting meat. My stomach roared.

  ‘Holy shit, Murphy...’ Ronan groaned.

  I bought a slab of roast boar on bread with pickled onions. I devoured half of it in an alley before my stomach protested. I shoved the rest into the Inventory.

  I bought a coffee and sat, soaking in the silence. The danger sense was quiet. For the first time in centuries, the hum of impending doom was gone.

  ‘It's peaceful,’ Ronan murmured.

  I remembered the gas station in the desert. Ten years of silence. This city was the opposite—loud, chaotic, safe in its anonymity.

  I reached into the Inventory for the leftover boar.

  Steam followed my hand. The paper was hot. The meat was juicy.

  I stared at it. It wasn't just a bag. It was a stasis chamber.

  ‘Incredible...’ Ronan whispered.

  I stood up with a predatory grin. I went back to the market and bought everything perishable—bread, poultry, cheese, milk, peaches—for pennies.

  We left with a perpetual pantry of hot, fresh food for barely a silver.

  "We have the gear. We have the food," I said, eyeing an inn. "Now we sleep."