Nathan woke at dawn.

Not by choice. By habit. Four years in a job that opened at six in the morning had trained his body to open its eyes before the first ray of sunlight, regardless of whether anyone was waiting for him or not, and apparently that programming hadn’t disappeared along with the business that went under.

He stared at the ceiling of the room for a moment.

*Bed. I’m in a bed. I’m in a bed I paid for. This is an objective fact of reality.*

*Good.*

He got up. Washed his face with the water from the basin. Got dressed. Went down to the dining room for the included breakfast, which turned out to be a bowl of oatmeal with honey, a piece of dark bread, and a cup of something hot that was technically coffee but only if you were very generous with the definition. Nathan drank it without comment. After four days of eating whatever was left at the bottom of his travel bag, any hot liquid was a divine miracle.

He left the inn with six silver coins in his pocket and a clear goal.

The used equipment market at Greywall’s East Plaza occupied an entire street. Wooden stalls lined both sides, drab-colored tarps hanging to provide shade, and the specific mix of smells—leather, oiled metal, dust, and sweat—that all combat equipment markets have in any city of any world where people make a living killing things for money.

Nathan walked slowly down the street, assessing.

There were stalls clearly designed for B-Rank Hunters and above. Polished armor, engraved swords, cloaks with recognizable guild embroidery. Those stalls didn’t even look at him as he passed. His clothes spoke for him, and what they said was *not a customer.*

Which was fine. He didn’t need them.

Near the end of the street, at a stall smaller than the rest, he found what he was looking for. A middle-aged vendor, bald, with hands stained with maintenance oil, sitting on a stool behind a pile of folded clothes with the specific efficiency of someone who had been folding clothes his entire life. Behind him, hanging from a rack, were leather jackets, boots, cloaks, belts, reinforced pants—all in acceptable condition but clearly secondhand.

The sign above the stall simply said: **USED GEAR. HONEST PRICES.**

Nathan approached.

"Good morning."

The man looked up. Sized him up in less than a second, the same way a tailor sizes up a customer, but with an additional commercial calculation component that suggested this assessment also included how much money he was carrying.

"Good morning. New Hunter."

"That obvious?"

"Everything about you says it. The clothes, especially. Your card is barely visible under your collar, but it’s too new not to be new. And you came in from the wrong end of the street, which means you came straight here instead of wasting time at the expensive stalls pretending you could afford them."

*Good. This man sees things. That’s exactly what I need.*

"What’s your name?" Nathan asked.

"Berran."

"Nathan Voss. I have six silver coins, and I need to dress like a Hunter without looking ridiculous, without spending it all, and without falling into the category of people who clearly bought their first Hunter outfit yesterday."

Berran looked at him for a moment. Then smiled slightly. It was the first genuine smile Nathan had seen in Greywall.

"That last part is the hard part. Most rookies don’t even consider it."

"I’m considering it."

"That’s going to cost you an extra coin in investment, but it’ll save you several in future problems. What Class are you?"

*Here we go again.*

"Detection and close combat," Nathan said, choosing his words with the same caution he’d used with Mira.

"That’s vague."

"It is."

"But I respect vagueness when it comes from someone who knows they’re being vague on purpose." Berran stood up from the stool. "Alright. Detection and close combat. That means you need mobility over heavy protection, fabric layers over plates, reinforcements where they really matter. Come here."

Nathan followed him to the rack.

Berran began pulling out items. A black leather jacket with discreet reinforcements at the shoulders and elbows, clearly used but well-maintained. Dark pants reinforced at the knees and thighs. A wide belt with two small compartments sewn into the inside. Boots that reached mid-calf with thick soles. A short dark gray cloak that reached mid-thigh, enough to protect from the weather without hindering movement.

He laid them all on the counter.

"Four silver for the whole set," Berran said. "Three if you give me the jacket you’re wearing to sell for parts."

"Is my jacket worth anything?"

"Not to you. To me, one more piece for the pile of jackets I sell to first-year apprentices."

"Deal."

"Start by trying on the new jacket."

Nathan took off his old jacket and put on the new one. It was slightly loose in the shoulders and practically perfect in the sleeve length, which, Berran explained while adjusting the shoulders, was exactly how a Hunter’s jacket should fit—to allow for additional layers in winter or full range of motion in combat.

While Berran adjusted the jacket, Nathan spoke in a casual tone.

"Have you been in Greywall long?"

"Twenty-two years."

"Then you know the city better than the official map."

"The official map is useless."

*Good. Opening.*

"Who really runs this city?"

Berran paused for a moment with his hands on the jacket’s shoulders. He looked up at Nathan.

"That’s an interesting question for someone who just started."

"I’m naturally curious."

"Curiosity kills more Hunters in their first three months than monsters do."

"I’m willing to take the risk."

Berran smiled slightly again. Went back to adjusting the jacket.

"Officially, Greywall is governed by a Mayor appointed by the Crown and a Guild Council that meets every quarter." He tugged gently at the jacket collar to correct the drape. "Unofficially, the city moves through four powers."

"I’m listening."

"One. House Aldermoor. Mineral and weapon merchants with the Seal of Solrath. They have a monopoly on quality steel in this whole frontier region. If you ever buy a new weapon in Greywall, part of that money goes to House Aldermoor whether you want it to or not."

*Cael Aldermoor. Third son. That’s why he dressed the way he dressed.*

"Two," Berran continued. "Thornwall Company. A major guild specializing in expeditions into the depths of the Gray Forest. Seal of Yeva. They absorb most of the B and A-Rank missions in this area. They have exclusive contracts with the Crown for mapping dangerous zones, which means they also have information that everyone else doesn’t."

"And the other two?"

"Three. The Temple of the Three. It’s a chapel shared by the priests of Solrath, Yeva, and Maen. On the surface, it’s just a temple. In practice, it’s where the rumors from the whole region are processed. If you want to know what’s really happening in Greywall, you find a priest willing to talk, and you pay them in favors, not coins."

"In favors?"

"The priests already have money. What they don’t have is manual labor outside the temple that won’t be noticed. A Hunter who owes them a favor is more useful than ten silver coins."

*Noted. That’s information of immediate practical use.*

"And the fourth?"

Berran stopped adjusting the jacket. Took a step back. Looked at him with the perfectly neutral face of someone calculating how much to say.