"Now don't get all happy. Those two pieces of silver are the only money we give for free and money in general," Jack said, crossing his arms.
"What do you mean?" I asked. This gift seemed too kind.
"Well, first off, you workers only get paid a monthly wage of ten copper coins—about one silver in total. Some get lucky and earn more, but don't expect much."
"No… no, that's not enough…"
Jack spat on the ground and walked away without even looking back. "What, you thought we hand out charity here? Live and learn. Remember where you are, and remember—you're filth, like my spit."
This motherfucker. Did he know what that meant? By my calculation, three copper bought a single piece of bread. That left me with two more loaves at most. Barely enough to feed my hunger, let alone give me the strength to keep working. And that was if I could even keep this job long enough to scrape by.
I literally lived in the slums. Walking back home, the numbers kept spinning in my head. One I needed a better job. Two this job was seasonal. When winter came, I'd either freeze to death or starve. I had only survived this long because of the old man. Most of my memories were of barely making it through my first years of life, clinging to scraps. He had practically starved himself to feed me.
Damn it all. Before the end of the month, I had to stockpile grain and meat—yes, meat. Without it this body would never grow properly. And second, I needed to find another place to live. Not a rotting hut. An Inn, maybe. Somewhere that could house me through the winter.
The sun was still out, maybe two or three hours left of daylight. I thought over my plan. First buy work clothes. Second look for anything else I could use.
Walking down the central path, the shops still glowed with faint lamplight. I remembered one shop from before, the only one I knew of that carried both weapons and clothes. Many others were already closing, but this one still had its doors open.
I pushed it open and a bell rang, announcing my presence. The front desk was empty. Weapons lined the right wall. To the left, rows of clothing and scraps of armor.
"Who is it?" a voice called.
From the back emerged a man taller than six feet. He wore a leather pickup, black jeans, and brown boots that spoke of old craft and long roads. A scar carved bold across his face, sliding from the edge of his forehead down to his nose. His eyes there was something haunting there. The golden ring around his pupils shone so strongly it made the blue darker, the black center sharp. Like a beast of the night ready for anything.
"Hello," I said, forcing my voice steady. "I was hoping to buy some clothes… and maybe look at some weapons."
"Sure. No problem. Follow me."
His tone was flat, straight to the point. Yet crawling under my skin was a small fear, something deep and soul-born. I didn't know why, but as we walked deeper into the shop, the feeling only grew.
And then I saw it.
Mounted on the back wall hung the skull of a wolf. Its fangs curved down like ivory spears the same fangs that haunted my dreams. The beast that killed me.
I froze. The more I stared, the more certain I became. This was no coincidence.
"What is that beast? What is its name?" I asked, my voice lower than a whisper.
The shopkeeper stopped. He stood still, his silence heavy. Slowly, he turned to look at me, as if weighing something in my soul.
Finally, he answered.
"They are called… Lunareth Wolves."