Stonefold smells like smoke, steel, and sweat.
It's louder than Darnem Hollow ever was. Carts rattle over cobblestone. Horses snort in the narrow streets. Men shout over prices and arguments. And eyes—they're everywhere. Watching. Measuring.
No one notices a boy with mud on his boots and a pouch of roots tucked beneath his shirt. That's good. Let them see me as small.
Because small things go unnoticed.
I ask around, careful with my voice, pretending I'm just an errand runner. When I say the name *Tarn Velin*, most faces twist with dislike.
"He deals in truths and poisons," one man mutters.
"He'll bleed you for silver if you blink wrong," says another.
That's fine. I'm not here to blink.
I find Tarn's shop tucked behind a tannery, hidden behind a curtain of rotting leather and the stink of boiled hides. No sign. Just a painted eye on the door.
I knock once.
Then twice.
Then once again.
The door opens on its own.
Inside, it's quiet. Bottles line the walls, filled with liquids in shades I've never seen—oils like molten bronze, smoke that floats inside glass, a jar of something with eyes that *move.*
And at the back, sitting behind a table carved with circles and knives—
Tarn Velin.
He's not what I expected.
Young. Handsome in a dangerous way. Hair tied back in a silver clasp, eyes sharp and unreadable. He taps his fingers on the table like he's keeping time with a song no one else can hear.
"You brought Marga's roots," he says before I speak. "You're not one of her usual runners."
I step forward. "I'm not anyone's runner."
He smiles.
"Good answer."
I place the pouch on his table. "She said you'd trade silver for them."
He lifts the pouch, sniffs once, and nods. "They're real. Fresh. Picked at midnight, just like she taught."
He tosses a small silver coin onto the table.
"One."
I don't move.
"She said you'd try to cheat me," I say.
His grin fades. Just slightly. "Did she?"
I nod. "I'll take three."
Silence.
Then he laughs—once, sharp and amused. He reaches into his coat and tosses two more coins down.
"You've got a spine," he says. "That'll get you killed. Or worse—*noticed.*"
"I want more work," I say.
Now his smile returns, slower this time.
"You've got something on you," he says, eyes drifting to my hand. "Something old. I can *feel* it. You don't know what it is, do you?"
I say nothing.
He chuckles. "Smart. Keep your secrets. But secrets are currency here. If you want work… bring me a secret worth more than three silver coins."
"I'll find one," I say.
"Then maybe," he says, "you'll live long enough to understand what you're carrying."
I leave the shop with silver in my pocket.
And for the first time, I don't feel small.
I feel *seen.*
And the ring?
The ring feels warmer now.
Like it approves.