The wagon wheels creaked to a halt at the edge of Millbrook village, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled over the already dreary landscape.
Aldrin Thorne, a merchant whose reputation once commanded respect across three counties, sat hunched over the reins with his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Fucking hell," he spat, wiping sweat from his balding forehead. "This godforsaken shithole."
Behind him in the wagon bed sat rows of carefully packed goods—silk cloth from the eastern trade routes, spices that cost him a small fortune, iron tools crafted by skilled blacksmiths. All worthless here.
All rotting away in this poverty-stricken backwater.
He'd spent the entire morning trying to sell. Not a single copper coin to show for it.
"Dad, you're gonna break your teeth grinding them like that," came a voice from beside him.
