The merchant, a man whose life was built on the steady exploitation of drunk sailors and overconfident youths, felt a sudden, inexplicable chill crawl down his spine. He looked at the three men standing before his stall. They wore commoners' linen and leather, but they stood with the lethal poise of statues carved from obsidian.
The one with the platinum hair—the one who had just slammed a gold crown onto the counter—had eyes like a summer storm, crackling with a terrifying, focused energy.
"Rings," the man repeated, his voice a low, jagged rumble. "Give. Me. All. Of. Them."
The merchant swallowed hard, his gold tooth glinting nervously in the light of the lotus lanterns. He pushed a basket of iron rings toward the stranger. "Three tosses for a copper, traveler! But for a gold crown... well, you can toss until the moon sets!"
