Soren

Storm clouds roll in as I lean on a wooden counter rapping my knuckles against the surface while a pudgy man in grubby clothing inspects the gems. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds glimmer in the lightbulb swinging over the top of his bald head as he squints through a pair of glasses that make his eyes ten times bigger than they actually are.

I glance over my shoulder at the narrow, dimly lit hallway leading back to the heart of a pub in Old Moonrise. This room is a secret, closed off from the public, and open to only a select few.

There’re places like this all over Eastonia. We...