“Instruments?” I asked. My attention immediately piqued.

  I glanced down at my new bag, where I had put the reed flute I had made. I was honestly surprised the thing had lasted this long after everything I had put it through. That it had even made it this far felt like a minor miracle.

  The idea of having something that wasn’t cobbled together by someone with only a vague idea of what an instrument should be grabbed hold of my interest hard.

  Old Garen grunted. “Come on.” He waved me behind the counter.

  We moved into a small back-of-house area through a set of doors, and I was greeted by his back room. I had thought the front was a cluttered mess, but the back completely showed it up. It was chaos. Stuff was piled everywhere, left and right, with no sense to it at all. I couldn’t see any pattern. It just looked like a hoarder’s dream.

  He waved me over to one section and opened a cabinet.

  Inside, I recognized musical instruments.

  It was quite a selection. I saw rusted horns, something that looked like a harp, what might have been a bandolier of bongos, and several metal and wooden flute-like things. Most of it spilled out as he opened the cabinet, reminding me of someone opening an overstuffed Tupperware cupboard.

  My eyes drifted to the top right-hand corner. Hanging there was something I instantly recognized.

  A guitar.

  Well, guitar might be too specific. It had the general shape of an acoustic guitar, but the body was a little longer and slimmer, with a sound hole in the front that was larger than I was used to. It had five strings, like a standard acoustic guitar back home. Overall, it was a dark red color, with an orange strap attached.

  I knew I needed to have it.

  Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I actually know anything about instruments, but it was something familiar. Something I thought I could fumble my way through, figure out how it worked, and maybe even teach myself to play.

  I looked at Old Garen and pointed at the guitar.

  “How much for that?” I asked.

  The old man scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Instruments are a bit like weapons,” he said. “They tend to be expensive. I should probably let that one go for five gold. But I’ll give it to you for three. I’ll even throw in a sound enchantment for free.”

  I started to say deal, but Old Garen waved a hand at me to stop.

  “Hey. I run a fair shop here. You haven’t even looked at the thing yet,” he said gruffly.

  I realized I was jumping at the chance and blinked sheepishly.

  He turned, reached up, and pulled the guitar down, then handed it to me. “Test it out first. See what you think.”

  I slipped the strap over my neck and felt it out. The weight settled against my chest in a way that felt right. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t have. My left hand found the neck without hesitation. My right hovered over the strings. I gave it a cautious strum with my thumb.

  It sounded horrible.

  Not bad in a simple way. Sound spilling everywhere at once. Notes clashing, overlapping, colliding. Like someone had tripped down a flight of stairs and took the rest of the orchestra with it.

  It was beautiful.

  I froze, thumb still resting against the lowest string, letting the sound die out naturally. The vibrations traveled through the body of the instrument and into me. I could actually feel it. In my hands. In my chest. Like the wood was answering something inside me.

  I tried again. Another strum. Slower this time.

  Still terrible.

  Still amazing.

  I had messed around with guitars before. Friends who brought one to a party and immediately became “That Guy”. Music people love sharing music, and I’d always liked that about them. I’d take the guitar, sit it in my lap, pluck at a few strings. Someone would try to teach me a chord. I’d nod, smile. pretend I was following along.

  Eventually I’d hand it back and let the moment pass.

  This wasn’t that.

  My fingers moved before I told them to. Not playing anything real. Just pressure changes. Small shifts. The strings reacted. The sound changed. I could feel where it wanted to go, even if I didn’t know how to get it there yet.

  It was like standing at the edge of a language I almost understood.

  I could see the paths. The shapes. The way one sound wanted to lean into another. The way tension begged for release. It wasn’t knowledge, it was instinct.

  It had to be my ability.

  [Musical Resonant Frequency] wasn’t teaching me how to play. It was teaching me how to listen.

  I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how hard I was gripping the neck.

  I felt like an eighteen-year-old freshman who had just learned three chords and was absolutely convinced he was about to change the world. The kind of idiot who brings a guitar to a college lawn and thinks Wonderwall is a personality.

  It felt really good. Like…really, really good.

  I reached back to strum again, and suddenly there was a hand clasping mine.

  I looked up in surprise to find Old Garen standing there, staring at me. He had the look that was unreadable to me.

  “Why don’t we hold off on that, huh?” he said with a grimace.

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  “Oh,” I said. I blinked. I hadn’t even realized how focused I’d been. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  I shifted the guitar back into a resting position, my attention finally pulling free of it. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater longer than I meant to.

  “Okay,” I said. “Yeah. I think I’m taking it.”

  He huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Anything else you need for it? I’ve got some extra strings.”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly. “Yeah, I’ll take those. Do you have a pick?”

  “A pick?” he repeated.

  “Yeah. It’s like a little metal thing. About yea big.” I held my fingers up. “You use it to hit the strings.”

  “Hm.” He scratched his chin. “Don’t think I’ve got anything made specifically for instruments. But I’ve got materials. You said metal? Hmmm…”

  “Does it need to be metal?” he asked. “Or could it be wood?”

  I thought about it, turning the guitar slightly so the light caught the strings. “I think they’re usually plastic. But I’m pretty sure that’s not happening here. Honestly, I’m not sure. Could we do both?”

  He nodded once. “Yeah. I can make it. Give me a second, lets figure out the sizes. Go wait up front.”

  He turned away and dug into another pile, pulling out a square of sheet metal about half a foot on each side. I moved back to the front and waited, my eyes drifting back to the guitar despite myself. Even sitting idle, it felt… expectant. Like it knew it was about to be used properly.

  Garen stomped back a moment later. Not angry, just heavy footsteps of the kind that belonged to someone who had never cared if the floor liked him.

  He set the metal down and focused on it. That deep blue glow flared to life, steady and controlled. A moment later, an oval sized piece of metal about the size of my thumb dropped free and clattered onto the surface. The glow faded.

  He picked it up and handed it to me. “How’s that?”

  I turned it over in my fingers. “That’s pretty close. Could we make it more of a triangle at the end? But curved?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” I hesitated, then added, “And could we smooth the edges? This feels like it might cut me.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

  He took it back and focused again. The metal glowed blue, and one end and two sides fell away, leaving a triangular shape. “That about right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding. I was honestly more fascinated watching the magic than anything else now. It wasn’t flashy. It was precise. Purposeful.

  He focused again, and this time the light softened. The surface lost its harshness, becoming smooth, almost warm looking. He handed it back.

  “How’s that?”

  I rolled it between my fingers. The weight felt right. The edges were perfect. Close enough to memory to count. “Yeah. This works perfectly. Can I get maybe a dozen of these?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Give me a few minutes. Look around.”

  With that, he walked back into the shop’s rear.

  I started casually glancing along the shelves, trying to take everything in. A lot of it was unmarked. Twine next to snow skis. Oil cans stacked beside random tools. There was a section I’d originally clocked as camping supplies, so I circled back to it wondering if there was anything I missed now that I could look at my own speed without someone on my shoulder. Water bottles, bedrolls, odds and ends. Nothing looked better than my trusty metal bottle. There was a tent, but I wanted to stay light, so I resisted the temptation.

  Hands clasped behind my back, I wandered to another shelf and stopped short.

  Notebooks and pens.

  Ballpoint pens by the look of them, though thicker than what I was used to. Closer to the width of a crayon. Still, unmistakably writing instruments.

  Old Garen came back out from the rear. “Got what you need. Take a look at these.”

  I grabbed two notebooks and several pens and carried them to the counter, setting them down. “I’ll take these too.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. “But look at these.”

  He laid them out. Ten metal picks and ten wooden ones, all identical in size and shape. Perfectly uniform. Like they’d been stamped by a machine.

  Magic is weird.

  “Yeah,” I said, picking one up and rolling it between my fingers. “That’s perfect. This’ll let me experiment.”

  I packed them into my bag, along with the notebooks and pens.

  “Oh,” I said, glancing back toward the shelves. “Those water bottles over there. I meant to ask. Is there water purification pills or filters I need?”

  He gave me a strange look. “What do you mean?”

  “Like drinking from streams and whatnot. So you don’t get and diseases or parasites.”

  He snorted. “No. Drink whatever you want. Only danger is something biting you while you’re at it. Bodies heal different here, your stats change things. You don’t really need to worry.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I took another look around. Then my old D&D instincts flared when I spotted rope.

  “I’ll take this too,” I said, grabbing it. It wasn’t thick. More like nylon cord. Maybe fifty or sixty feet. Rope was rope, and you could do a lot with it.

  I set it down. “You pretty much know what I’ve got. Anything you’d suggest?”

  “Hm.” He scratched his chin. I noticed a bit of scar tissue there. Old habit, maybe.

  “You heading back into the forest?”

  “Probably. If not now, soon.”

  He pulled out a thin metal strip with a crude drawing of a squirrel crossed out. “Little enchantment of mine. Keeps anything level one away for a few hours.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. That sounds useful. I didn’t see Ephraim use that though.”

  “Well,” he said, “those little bastards are the fastest way to build experience. From Ephraim’s farm to here, how many did he kill?”

  I thought back. “Fifty. Sixty. Maybe more.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Easy experience once you know how, builds up when you are talking that over weeks and months. Still a pain though.”

  I winced. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”

  “Call it nine gold,” he said. “Or leave it and keep credit with me.”

  “That’s fair.”

  I stopped for a long second, that familiar feeling settling in. The one that told me a conversation was just about over.

  There was still one question circling my head though. One I hadn’t been able to shake since Ephraim had marched me into town and left me here. I looked at Old Garen again, thinking about the fact that Ephraim trusted him. Trusted him enough to send me here instead of anywhere else. That had to mean something.

  For whatever that horny [Warrior] had going on in his head, I think he meant well. Even with the part where he tied me up naked in a barn. Or the part where he kissed me out of nowhere. Or the part where he dragged me into a strange town and then left me alone in it.

  Okay. Not unpacking that right now.

  I met Old Garen’s eyes again.

  “So,” I said. “Seriously. What's your final advise for someone who’s just starting out? Anyone in town I should talk to? Any direction I should go, outside of avoiding recruitment and not heading north?”

  He studied me in silence for a moment. I had a few inches on him, but somehow he still managed to look down at me like I was a kid asking an obvious question. Not unkindly. Just… experienced.

  He shifted his weight, arms crossing. “Don’t rush. That’s the biggest mistake I see. People start reacting. Fast. They think movement means progress, and all it really means is they’re making choices without understanding them.”

  He gestured vaguely with one hand. “That’s how you get your head taken off.”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  “Figure things out first,” he continued. “Find where you’re useful. Like we talked about. Once you know that, decisions get easier.”

  Then his eyes flicked down to the guitar.

  “And work on that,” he added. “Make it not sound like a dying cat.”

  I snorted despite myself. “Fair enough.”

  I hesitated, then straightened a bit. “Thank you. Seriously. I appreciate it. I owe you one.”

  He growled at me for that, low and immediate.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I’m just doing enough to make sure I’ve got a future customer. Now get out of here.”

  I laughed, nodded, and turned toward the door before he could say anything else.

  Outside, I stopped and took in the town properly.

  It really was an unfriendly place.

  The inn across the way was nothing more than a wooden building with “INN” slapped on the front in faded paint. Down the street, the [Priest]s still clustered in front of the temple, already eyeing anyone who looked uncertain enough to recruit. A few buildings up, I spotted the same shady rogue I’d noticed earlier, leaning where he could see everything without looking like he was watching.

  Crap.

  Every option felt like a trap. Join someone. Owe someone. Be useful in a way that benefited them first.

  I exhaled slowly.

  What I needed wasn’t a job or a group. I needed space. Time. A chance to experiment without eyes on me. To actually play with my abilities. To figure out what this guitar could do, and what I could do with it, without someone trying to claim me as an asset.

  Or get in my pants.

  I nodded to myself, decision settling in.

  I walked through town as casually as I could manage, keeping my head down and my pace even. Out the gate. Past the last leaning buildings.

  Then I stepped into the nearest patch of woods, the sounds of town fading behind me.