Later that day, Eryn wandered the edge of the marketplace, eyes wide but wary. Stalls overflowed with goods—bolts of dyed fabric, hanging herbs, and meat pies steaming in the afternoon sun. The chatter of people felt like another language. He kept to the edges, unnoticed in his ragged clothes.
A tanner sharpening a blade caught his eye. The man worked methodically, dragging the steel along a whetstone until it gleamed. Eryn felt a strange pull, a flicker of something new—resolve, maybe, or rage.
He stepped closer. "How much for a knife?" His voice was small, but steady.
The tanner looked him over, eyes narrowing. "You don't look like you've a coin to your name, boy."
Eryn's jaw tightened. "I'll work. Anything. Just… I need one."
The man sighed, shaking his head. "Knives aren't toys."
"They're not," Eryn said quietly. "They're for surviving."
Something in his tone made the tanner pause. Finally, he reached into a box and pulled out a small, sturdy blade with a worn wooden handle. "You bring me two days' work—cleaning hides, fetching water—and this is yours. No sooner."
Eryn's fists clenched with determination. "I'll do it."
And he did. For two days he hauled buckets, scrubbed hides until his fingers bled, endured the stink of tanning pits without complaint. Each night he returned to the stable, collapsing into sleep, dreaming of blood and fire and the man in the forest.
On the morning of the third day, the tanner handed him the knife. Eryn gripped it tight, feeling its weight, the edge of its blade. "You take care with that," the tanner said gruffly.
Eryn nodded, slipping it into his belt. He stood in the street, staring toward the dark line of the forest in the far distance. Beyond those trees somewhere was Talon, the one who had done nothing while everything burned.
Eryn's breath fogged in the cool morning air. He whispered to himself, a promise carved into his heart:"I'll become strong enough to kill you."
And with that, he turned his back on the market's warmth and started walking toward the unknown.