Peter Mercier and the Hunters of Artemis

Chapter 1

It had been three weeks since Peter sailed to the Northern Markets on that small boat, propelled by the wind and the cheers of Hiccup Haddock and the Dragon Riders, yet the boy still didn't understand the concept of rent.

"I'm not arguing, I'm making a point!" he yelled downstairs, the floorboards of the attic creaking as he set down a chest on the small bed in front of him. "Why do I have to pay you to sleep in a room you're not using?"

"Because you're loud! The customers can hear you snoring!" a disgruntled voice yelled back. "And because I had to clean out all the spiders up there and move the bed in!"

"Yeah, thanks," Peter grumbled, eyeing what was clearly a cobweb still huddled near the door as he walked towards it. "I'm sure they appreciate me claiming their territory."

He shut it gently, breathed out, and turned to survey the room. It was just enough for him, a window above the dresser next to his bed allowing moonlight to shine onto the dusty wooden floor.

A bench was next to the entrance, and a small desk with a candle loomed in the right corner, half-opened books and various letters scattered across it. Delirious laughter could be heard from the bar below, where his landlord kept to himself and tended to his thirsty customers almost all day and most of the night.

Peter had, thankfully, arrived safely to the markets after his ordeal with Henrique. But finding a place to stay proved hard. He lived out on the thin, busy streets for a few days before pickpocketing enough loose change to set up a stand next to the bar, where he sold soup.

Business was slow for him most days, being a new face in the ancient market. The thin linen shirt and tattered trousers made working out in the early spring weather a challenge, but nothing he hadn't done before, even if it made him a smidge grumpier. It's not like Peter minded the cold all that much anyway though; it only made his constant frown more justified.

A different cold ran his scarred hide nightly, though.

With Michael's death fresh in his mind, he found sleeping difficult. When he did, his dreams weren't pleasant. Certainly nothing to look forward to after a day of hard work. He'd taken his friends' advice to heart though, talking to his landlord and anybody who would listen to help his conscience.

Most people didn't care, but it felt nice anyway. Pressing on made him feel stronger, as if his strength didn't do that for him anyway. Besides, it helped.

The wounds he'd endured had healed nicely, his hands and arms free of bandages entirely. He stretched, interweaving his fingers and stretching them out in front of him, a few small cracks from his back and shoulder blades ringing out. He sighed, walking forward to inspect the chest.

Peter smiled, running his hands across it. The wood was worn, but certainly sturdy. "This'll be good to keep my books in," he suggested, carrying it to the desk. Setting it down with a thud, he nodded triumphantly. "It's all coming together," he affirmed, not minding the other empty corners nor the evident lack of light aside from the candle and the moon. He sighed, making his way to the door and brushing past his landlord in his customers.

Outside, people bustled by in the expansive market. Most were drunk, given the location, but customers they were even still. Peter guessed booze went well with stew, the boy taking inspiration from his father's recipe as well as Hiccup and Astrid's. Memory served him well enough and upon walking to the stand a few Vikings waited patiently in line.