Soren
Storm clouds roll in as I lean on a wooden counter rapping my knuckles against the surface while a pudgy man in grubby clothing inspects the gems. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds glimmer in the lightbulb swinging over the top of his bald head as he squints through a pair of glasses that make his eyes ten times bigger than they actually are.
I glance over my shoulder at the narrow, dimly lit hallway leading back to the heart of a pub in Old Moonrise. This room is a secret, closed off from the public, and open to only a select few.
There’re places like this all over Eastonia. We call them Fences here–a place to barter and sell stolen goods without questions being asked. In Crescent Falls, they simply call it the black market. If I had time on my side, I would have traveled there t
