The goblin town smelled like rust, salt, and too many things burning at once.
I followed Radomir through the crowded dockside market, keeping my distance. He moved through the noise like a man who had spent his life in places like this — comfortable, unhurried, nodding to merchants he had never met as if they were old friends.
I did not know how to move through a place like Ratchet. The noise pressed in from every direction. Goblins shouted prices from stalls stacked with goods I could not name. The air was thick with smoke and salt and the sharp tang of something chemical.
Radomir stopped at a stall near the water's edge. The goblin behind the counter was old, even by goblin standards, and wore spectacles thick enough to distort his eyes. They spoke for a long time — Radomir gesturing, the goblin shaking his head, Radomir reaching into his pack and pulling out something I could not see.
I watched from the shadows of a stack of crates.
Whatever Radomir offered, it was enough. The goblin's expression shifted. He disappeared into the back of his stall and returned with a small pouch. Radomir opened it, checked the contents, and nodded. He tucked the pouch into his belt and walked away.
When he passed me, he did not slow down.
"Ratchet," he said, "is a place where everything has a price. Including information."
He held up the pouch. Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of something dark — a stone, cut clean, catching the light like deep water.
"First one," he said.
I did not ask what he had traded for it. I was not sure I wanted to know.