Salt. Herbs. Chickens. Honey. Rope.
"I'm fine," I tell Kestria, and start moving again. "Herb stall. That one."
I'm sorting through bundles before the trader finishes her greeting.
"Yarrow's good." I hold up a dried bundle. "Properly cured. And this feverfew—I've been needing this for ages."
"What about that one?"
"Chamomile. Decent, not great. Harvested too early—see how small the flowers are?"
"Does it matter?"
"For potency? Absolutely. Underdeveloped flowers, lower concentration of—" I catch the trader watching me and switch tracks. "How much for the yarrow and feverfew?"
"Four coppers."
"Two."
"Three."
"Two and a half. And I won't mention the chamomile situation out loud where your other customers can hear."
She looks at the chamomile. Looks at me.
"Two and a half."
I count out coins and hand the bundles to Kestria. She takes them, shifts the weight in her arms.
"You just threatened that woman with public herb criticism."
"I gave her a professional courtesy."
"You're terrifying."
"I'm economical. There's a difference." Already moving. "Salt next."
The salt trader tries for five coppers. I get him down to three and a half and take a rosemary bundle for his trouble.
"Has anyone ever out-haggled you?" Kestria helps me stack the salt in the cart.
"A woman in Blomstradal did once. I was twelve. It was formative." I check the cart—supplies settling, weight distributed, good. "Never again."
"So you've been holding a grudge against market traders for ten years."
"It's not a grudge. It's motivation."
She laughs, and I'm already scanning ahead—past the cloth merchant to the far end where cages are stacked. I can hear chickens. My pulse picks up, which is ridiculous.
They're chickens.
"There."
"You're practically running."
"I'm walking with purpose toward nutritional infrastructure."
"You're running toward chickens."
