The cobbler's shop smelled like heaven had a leather fetish.
We pushed through the low door and the air folded around us: rich, oiled hides hanging in dark sheets, beeswax polish so thick it coated the back of my tongue, the sharp tang of fresh-cut soles, and underneath everything the warm animal scent of tanned leather still remembering the cow. Sunlight slanted through dusty windows and turned floating specks of leather-dust into slow golden snow.
The cobbler himself was a squat, one-eyed dwarf with arms like ship's rope and a beard braided with tiny brass bells that chimed softly when he moved. He took one look at my bare, road-blackened feet and grunted like I'd personally offended his ancestors.
Ten minutes and six silver later I walked out wearing the single best thing I'd ever put on my body.
The boots were knee-high, soft black leather lined with sheep's wool so thick my feet sighed the moment they slid in. The soles were double-stitched bull hide with a slight heel that clicked satisfyingly on the stones. They smelled of fresh oil and cedar shavings, and when I flexed my toes the leather creaked like it was already telling stories. For the first time since the truck, the ground felt like something I owned instead of something that owned me.
Rill got low, ankle-wrapped sandals that laced up her calves with red cord; she kept spinning in place just to hear the soft slap of leather on stone. Lioren chose forest-green boots that came to mid-calf, silent as a secret, the leather dyed with crushed walnut and polished until it looked wet.
We left lighter by eighteen silver and heavier by pure, stupid joy.
The guild square was already busy. Heat rose off the stones in shimmering waves, carrying the smells of hot iron from the smithy, fresh horse droppings being swept away, and the sugary waft of a halfling selling candied violets from a basket. Colors felt louder in the full sun: red guild banners snapping overhead, blue mage robes, the blinding white of a priest's robe, a dragonborn scales glinting emerald on a passing mercenary.
The quest board had new parchment, crisp and bright, ink still glossy. I could smell the gallnut sharpness from three paces away.
Rill's ears perked so hard they nearly touched. Lioren's fingers tightened on her bow.
A single sheet, thicker than the rest, crimson border, nailed dead center:
**URGENT – ESCORT & EXTERMINATION**
**Merchant caravan to the city of Veyris**
**Threat: Bandit company "The Red Fang" + suspected mid-tier mage**
**Distance: Five days through the Ashen Hollow**
**Reward: 30 gold upfront, 50 gold on safe arrival**
**Bonus: 5 gold per Red Fang ear, 20 gold if the mage is captured alive**
**Slots: 6 adventurers maximum**
Underneath, in fresh red wax, the guild master's personal seal.
The square noise faded to a dull roar in my ears. Thirty gold upfront was life-changing. Fifty more on arrival was legendary. The Ashen Hollow was notorious: haunted woods, monster nests, old battlefields where the ground still tasted of blood and old magic.
Rill's tail lashed once, excited. Lioren's eyes had gone sharp and hungry, the same look she wore right before loosing an arrow.
I reached up, tore the sheet free. The parchment crackled like dry lightning.
Three hearts started beating to the same reckless rhythm.
I turned to them, boots clicking once on the hot stone, and grinned with every tooth and fire.
"Road trip?" I asked.
Rill whooped so loud a nearby horse shied. Lioren's smile was slow, dangerous, beautiful.
We had five days to prepare, thirty gold burning a hole in our pouch, and a whole new world waiting to find out what happens when three disasters learn how to walk together.
The sun beat down, the bells rang noon, and the three of us turned toward the market, leather creaking, silver singing, already tasting dust, blood, and bigger stories on the wind
The next four days blurred into a fever of spending, sharpening, and anticipation.
We moved through the market like a small, hungry storm.
First stop: the weapon smith. The forge heat slapped us in the face twenty paces away, thick, dry, tasting of coal smoke and molten iron. Sparks fountained every time the hammer fell, white-hot stars dying on the anvil with a hiss. Rill walked out with twin short swords that sang when she drew them, edges so keen they shaved the hair off her forearm just looking at them. Lioren traded her old yew bow for a recurved monster of black horn and sinew; the draw weight made her shoulders flex and the string hum like a plucked harp. I bought a narrow ash-wood staff capped with a raw fire-opal the size of a quail egg. When I closed my fist around it the opal woke up, pulsing warm against my palm like a second heartbeat.
Next: armor. The leather reinforced with mithril thread, light enough to dance in, strong enough to turn a glancing blade. The inside was lined with rabbit fur that smelled faintly of lavender and cedar. When the armorer laced me into the jerkin it settled over my shoulders like it had always belonged there, cool at first, then warming instantly to my skin.
Provisions came after. We bought dense travel bread that smelled of anise and molasses, hard sausages studded with peppercorns that stung the nose, dried apricots sticky with honey, and a small keg of the inn's smoked cider that gurgled invitingly when we rolled. The spice merchant weighed out little cloth packets: crimson fire-salt that made my tongue tingle just from the fumes, pale green healing leaves that tasted like pine needles and winter, and black dreamroot for nights when sleep refused to come.
Every purchase was a sensory explosion: the silky slide of new cloaks dyed midnight blue, the metallic whisper of freshly fletched arrows, the oily sweetness of bowstring wax rubbed between Lioren's fingers, the cold bite of silver coins leaving our pouch and the warmer weight of gold arriving in its place.
Evenings we spent on the inn roof, legs dangling over the edge, passing a jug of cider that tasted of apples and smoke. The tiles were still sun-hot under our thighs; the night air cooled our faces and carried the smell of distant pine forests and coming rain. Below us the village settled: lanterns blooming one by one like orange flowers, the last blacksmith hammer falling silent, a baby crying somewhere, then soothed. Rill's tail beat a lazy rhythm against the gutter. Lioren's head found my shoulder without asking. We didn't talk much. We just breathed the same air and listened to thirty gold imperials clink softly in the pouch between us, each coin warm from our skin.
On the fifth dawn the sky was the color of fresh steel, clouds bruised purple at the edges. The caravan waited at the eastern gate: six covered wagons painted cheerful blue and red, oxen lowing in the cool air, their breath steaming white. The merchants wore worried smiles and smelled of money and fear. A dozen hired guards checked girths and bowstrings, armor creaking, horses stamping, iron shoes ringing on stone.
We walked up in new boots that hadn't yet learned the shape of our feet, cloaks snapping in the wind, weapons gleaming with fresh oil. The guards took one look at us (three kids barely into their twenties, laughing like they'd already won) and muttered prayers under their breath.
Rill vaulted into the lead wagon like she owned it. Lioren climbed more quietly, braid tucked inside her hood, eyes already scanning the treeline. I swung up last, staff across my knees, fire-opal catching the first ray of sun and throwing it back blood-red.
The caravan master cracked his whip. Wheels groaned. Dust rose in sweet, dry clouds that tasted of summer and old roads.
Behind us the village bells rang once, deep and saying goodbye. Ahead, the Ashen Hollow waited: dark pines, old bones, bandits with red fangs painted on their shields, and a mage who'd never met a fireball with my name on it.
I leaned back against a crate of spices that smelled of cinnamon and danger, felt the wagon rock beneath me like a living thing, and grinned into the wind.
The road tasted of dust, cider, and coming legend.
We rolled out singing, off-key and perfect, three heartbeats loud enough to scare the forest silent for miles.