When Skitz was busy negotiating trade, Lumberling slipped away into the lower markets—the kind of place where stalls leaned into the alleys and the air smelled of grease, smoke, and old leather. No armor sets here. Just scraps, raw parts, and strange odds and ends.
'Perfect.'
He moved deliberately, ignoring the barks of merchants peddling knives and charms. Instead, he found what he needed: thick ashwood planks, straight-grained and uncracked. He tested their heft and picked two. Solid. Durable. Functional.
At a metal vendor's stall, he eyed coils of spring-steel wire and small iron gears.
"This batch is tempered," the smith said, trying to sell him on quality. "Good for traps or maybe some clever clockwork."
Lumberling only nodded, dropping two silver coins without a word.
Next stall—glass jars of charcoal powder, sulfur, and saltpeter. He cracked one open and sniffed. Smoky. Sharp. Just right.
