The Weir’s Rest smelled of old grease and the dry, metallic scent of the riverbed. Inside the trading floor, the air felt thin. It was the kind of air that did not carry sound well. The boots of the merchants muffled against the floorboards as if they were walking through deep sand.

  The shepherd stood at the edge of a stall piled with salvage. Beside him, Kael was a shadow of restless intent. Kael did not watch the goods. He watched the hands of every man who passed them.

  "The oil first," Kael said. His voice was low, stripped of any warmth. "Then the salt. We do not have the coin for anything else."

  The merchant, a man named Hobb, did not look up from the small brass scale on his counter. He was gray-skinned and thick through the middle. He moved with the slow, efficient economy of someone who had survived the world's slowing by doing exactly as much as was required and nothing more. He was weighing a handful of copper links.

  "Price is on the board," Hobb said. He did not sneer. He did not welcome them. He simply existed behind the counter. "I do not haggle for oil. Take it or leave it for the next man."

  The shepherd did not answer. He moved away from the counter toward a pile of textiles stacked in the shadows. His hand reached out. His fingers, thickened by years of work in the high pastures, brushed against a heavy gray blanket.

  He stopped.

  His thumb found the edge of the wool. The texture was unmistakable. It was a specific, coarse grain from a breed of sheep that only grazed the northern crags. As his hand moved to the corner, his callouses caught on a familiar ridge. It was a knot twisted into the shape of a seed. He had sat by a thousand fires making that exact turn of the wrist. He knew the tension of the thread. He knew the animal it had come from.

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  The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. The sound of Kael’s voice and the clink of Hobb’s scales became distant and distorted, as if a thick curtain had been dropped between the shepherd and the world. The candles on the merchant’s counter did not flicker. They began to lean toward the shepherd, their flames stretching horizontally as if drawn by a vacuum.

  Under his ribs, a cold, sharp pressure expanded. It was a silent vibration that rattled his teeth. He gripped the edge of the wool. He did not speak. He did not move. He stood there until the flames of the candles slowly righted themselves and the muffled roar of the common room returned to his ears.

  He let go of the blanket. He walked back to the counter.

  Kael was staring at him, his brow furrowed in a silent question. The shepherd ignored the look. He reached into the small pouch at his belt and pulled out a silver brooch. It was a simple thing, shaped like a shepherd’s hook, worn smooth by decades of touch.

  He placed it on the counter next to Hobb’s scales.

  Hobb picked it up. He did not ask where it came from. He did not look at the craftsmanship. He dropped it onto the scale and watched the needle jump. He nodded once.

  "Salt and two jars of oil," Hobb said. He reached under the counter and produced the supplies.

  The shepherd picked up the salt. It was a small, heavy sack. He felt the weight of it in his palm.

  "Is that all?" Kael asked, his eyes darting toward the silver brooch now sitting in Hobb's discard tray.

  The shepherd looked at the salt. He looked at the jars. The weight of his past life was now sitting in a tray to be melted down, and in exchange, he had enough to keep his meat from rotting for another week.

  "It is enough," the shepherd said.

  They walked out of the inn and into the gray twilight. The Great Reach sat below the cliff, a motionless mirror reflecting a sky that had forgotten how to turn red. The shepherd adjusted the strap of his pack. The salt was a hard lump against his spine. He started down the trail, his head down, his feet finding the path in the dark.