Levi counted the copper pennies in his palm again. He didn't need to, He already knew how many. Not enough.

He leaned back against a damp post near the edge of Bogwater's pitiful little trade path. Swampberries were supposed to be his way forward. His loophole. His hack.

But no one in this gods-forsaken village had any silver to spare. A copper penny here, a few there. Smiles, sure. Nods, even. But smiles didn't feed the cheat engine. Coppers couldn't be split into silver.

He needed five silver stags.

He had one.

He needed four more, and Bogwater wasn't going to give it to him even if he planted berries in every mouth in the Neck.

On the second morning, while Levi sat behind a crooked smoke hut gnawing on dried bread, he overheard a pair of boys talking over their fish haul.

"Did you hear about Catling Pier? Said boats from the south docked for trades. One had a cask of Arbor wine. Arbor."

"Don't be daft. Arbor wine doesn't go past Oldtown."

"Still, they say coin flows there. Even silver."

That was all Levi needed to hear.

He gathered his basket, checked his pockets, and made for the edge of Bogwater. Mae wasn't home, and even if she had been, she probably would've told him not to come back without something useful in his hands.

Catling Pier. It wasn't a town, not even a real village. Just a moss-covered river post barely held together by sunken wood and willpower. But it had boats. And boats meant trade.

By midday he arrived. The air smelled of tar, fish scales, and stale sweat. Tarps flapped lazily in the river breeze. Wooden stalls half-covered in reed mats lined the bank.

He found a corner and laid out his swampberries on a sloped board.

"Fresh picked!" he shouted. "Sweet or stewed, they keep well on the road!"

The first few customers came out of curiosity. A mother bartered a berry for a fish tail. A boatman gave a copper and laughed as he bit into it.

A full day's work. Fourteen copper pennies.

The second day was worse. He called louder. Walked from cart to cart, hand to hand. His fingers stained purple from crushed fruit. His throat dry from yelling. His pride, thinner by the hour.

But then, late in the day, a merchant who smelled like whale oil tossed a silver stag into Levi's palm.

"Better than the mush in the south," the man grunted.

Levi could've kissed him.

That made two.

Still not enough.

As the light began to fall behind the trees, Levi leaned on a crate near the pier and listened to the murmur of passing men.

"Three days behind," one of them growled. A short, red-faced man with a patchy beard paced beside a boat with a torn sail. "Can't patch a hull with air."

"Get the logs or go back empty," said another. "We need sixty lengths, or we're beached 'til winter."

Levi blinked.

Sixty logs.

That, he could do.

He waited for a lull. Watched from behind a tarp until the men had wandered off toward the inn, likely to drink and argue.

He crept to the side of the old shack, where tools and ropes were stored. There, a flat patch of ground sat mostly bare—perfect.

He opened the file.

Wood : +60

The logs appeared in neat rows, freshly stripped and uniform. As if a lumber mill spat them out moments ago.

Levi wiped sweat from his brow. Not from labor, but from nerves. If anyone had seen—

He made himself scarce, circling wide until the torches were lit and the noise of the camp grew louder. Then he returned to the boatman's corner.

"I left the logs behind the shack," he said quietly.

The red-faced man turned. "What?"

"The sixty you needed. All there. Behind the shack, where the ropes are."

The boatman didn't believe him—Levi saw it in his eyes. But the man couldn't afford not to check.

Half an hour passed before the red-faced boatman came back. His scowl was still there—but now it twitched at the edges.

"Where'd they come from?"

"Paid in kind," Levi lied. "Someone owed me favor."

The boatman hesitated.

"Three silver stags," he muttered. "And not a copper more."

"I'll take it," Levi said, extending his hand.

The pouch was dropped in with a grunt and a curse.

By the time he returned to Bogwater, the moon was high and the trees whispered with wet wind. He crept down the path, feet aching, head buzzing.

He opened Mae's door gently.

She was sitting by the fire, her eyes already on him. Not angry. Just… waiting.

"Thought you were dead," she said.

Levi managed a grin, too tired to laugh. "No. Just came back with coin."

He set the pouch on the table. The silver stags clinked like a song.

Mae looked at it for a moment, then gave a slow, tired nod.

"No longer more useless than moss," she muttered as she stood up, her joints creaking. "I'll rest now. You should too."

Levi sat at the edge of the bed, watching the pouch. Five silver stags.

Finally.

He smiled.