The Afflicted

Carting the dead around would have been an unpleasant job, but carting around the pungent fecal waste of the Southern Quarter was its own special brand of torture. The thick scarf covering Sorena’s nose did little to protect her from the rancid assault. The sour stench of waste thickened with the desert heat, curling into her nostrils and sinking into her pores, as if the very air was conspiring to suffocate her beneath its filth.

For a fleeting moment, as a gust of hot wind scraped through the alley, Sorena considered letting the desert bury her whole. There was freedom in surrender—scatter into the dust and leave nothing behind. It had its allure, shimmering like a mirage in the heat, but it was only ever a trick of distance. True freedom wasn’t found in laying down the weight. It belonged to those who’d never been made to carry it in the first place.

It was the sort of thought that crept in when the sun boiled your brain and you began to suspect the gods made deserts just to watch you sweat. She often wondered what it was like to be born into a life with skin too delicate for the heat.

The dull clang of wood against stone recaptured her attention as the dingy contraption wobbled past her, continuing its steadfast route. A pale arm, sickly and limp, hung from beneath the threadbare tarp covering the rickshaw’s load. It flopped carelessly with the unbalanced movements of the barefoot reaper. The stench of decay trailed behind him, cutting through even the overpowering stink of her own cart.

Several workers stole quick glances in their direction, their faces turning sour. There was nothing unusual about the display, but no one ever truly got used to the smell. She adjusted her grip, lifting her chest forward, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other.

Her work earned her three aquarites, which was more than the average graverunner. But that was only because the affluent weren’t the ones dying. What Fade could afford to have their loved ones buried? It was a declining profession, but bodies continued to be carted around. Graverunners had quickly turned to reaping instead.

Sorenna gritted her teeth. At least she would always have a job, so long as the rich remained bloated and stuffed with golden figs. She was disturbingly aware of how endless their excrements were, and how few options for other work remained.

Grateful, they would say. She should be grateful. That the wealthy occupants of the Southern Heights were extremely devoted to the pristine hygiene of their homes, producing unending divine shit for her to shovel. They spoke of cleanliness as a tool for holy protection, as if polished stone walls and jasmine-scented baths could keep the corruption away. As if purity could be achieved by simply washing off the filth.

Scrub hard enough, bleed often enough, obey well enough, and maybe you could cleanse yourself of your stain. But the truth was, no matter how much Sorena scrubbed, she would never be clean. Dirt could be washed away, but blood could not be changed. Sorena, with her cart of dung and her sweat-soaked cloak, was a walking reminder of that divide.

“Have you seen her?” The voice was distant, but carried through the acoustics of the alley clearly. A shiver raced through her spine. She would recognize him anywhere by that awful whine his words carried.

“Hmm. ’Fraid not.”

“Are you certain?”

If she could hope for one small miracle afforded by the gods today, it would be to avoid another undignified interaction with that man. She snuck a quick glance over her shoulder, relieved to only see Fades walking past.

The handles of her cart bit into her palms, the worn wood rough against her calloused hands. Her muscles burned as she pushed onward, each step kicking up small clouds of dust on the uneven path.

The road sloped downward from the Southern Heights’ western gate, polished limestone transitioning into cracked and fading stonework. The opulence of the Highbloods district had quickly given way to a more humble reality: the plaster of buildings ahead was chipped, wooden shutters sagged on rusted hinges, and the occasional laundry line stretched across the alleyways, the fabric stiff with dust and sun.

Sorena traced her usual route into the Common Quarter, streets lined with vendors who couldn’t afford a proper shop. Their goods were displayed on makeshift tables, spread out on overused cloth. Women sat with woven baskets, selling shrivelled root vegetables that had seen better days. A butcher hacked away at stringy pieces of hagsrat meat, flies buzzing eagerly over the scraps at his feet.

A mix of cobbled brick and patched wood, homes were weighed down with slabs of clay to prevent them from collapsing under the desert wind at night. Two women were scrubbing the steps of their homes, their hands raw and strained. Their tired eyes flicked up at her, but quickly averted. Hushed giggles and high-pitched singing carried from the shadow of an abandoned storefront. The silhouette of two young girls danced, make-shift dolls of ragged yarn and discarded fabric puppeteered through the air.

Sorena paused, releasing the cart’s handles. The wood cut into her back as it came to a halt behind her. Remembering to remove her glove first, she wiped the searing sweat off her brows.

She had caught up with the reaper from earlier, though he had added another body, poorly veiled under the rickshaw’s tarp.

The runner approached the Exchange. The looming dark building watched over the village like a predator. Five years prior, a fire had spread with the dry heat, destroying a dozen homes before enforcers were able to suppress it. Within a cycle, the hulking mass of stone and metal was erected in the remains of the scorched land. Convenient, that such an accident occurred.

The building was thick with pipes running along its sides. Its dark soot-streaked walls absorbed the sunlight, radiating an oppressive heat. A perimeter of ash encircled the building, marking the borders of the unnatural structure. The gaping maw of its entrance was lined with iron teeth, and just beyond, a pit yawned open from the ground. A sigil of the Ferris family was carved above the doorway, the once-bright emerald and gold paint fading to a dull rust.

The runner hesitated for only a moment before he tipped the rickshaw, letting the bodies tumble unceremoniously into the pit. A chime rang, delicate and out of place, as though mocking the grim transaction. A bruised violet glow flared briefly, swallowing the corpses like a hungry scavenger waiting to pick the bones bare. Then the flicker faded back to shadows.

“Here,” the rumbling voice called from the Exchanger’s open window. The reaper greedily reached his hand inside, accepting the payment and tucking it in his trousers. His movements had slowed, shoulders sagging, as he trudged back to his cart.

Sorena watched in silence, her gaze caught between the runner and the building.

The Exchange stood as a grotesque symbol of desperation. There were rumours about what the Highbloods did with the corpses, but no one truly knew.

Some claimed they ground the bones into face powder to keep their skin pale and pure, or crafted jewelry from the burned ashes. Others whispered that the bodies were used in twisted military experiments. A few believed they drained their blood, crafting poisons sold in the black trade.

The rumours always sounded absurd. Sorena suspected the truth was simpler: the blight was spreading, and the Fades were to blame. They weren’t harvesting their remains, only ensuring the soil remained clean of the likes of her.

She shook her head. Whatever the truth was, each body was worth ten aquarite; making it a price too tempting for many to resist.

Should they ever die, Sorena vowed she would bury her family properly, even if it meant starving herself to do it. The meagre payment in exchange for the unknown cravings of the Porcelains wasn’t enticing to her. They flaunted their polished exteriors, flawless and cold, but the Fades knew the truth. Porcelain was hollow inside, and that was the part no polish could hide.

In fact, if the Highbloods desired something, she would rather do anything to oppose it.

There had been many days Sorena had considered leaving her cart full of chamberpot offerings underneath the windowsills of the Highbloods. Temptation always gave way to self-preservation. As enticing as it was, she needed the coin more. Keeping her head attached to her body was also a priority—lest she be the next one dumped into the Exchange.

Her arms ached from the four trips she had already taken. The foul smell had embedded itself into her clothes, and she would need to launder them twice to dispel it. With a sharp breath, she adjusted her scarf and replaced her gloves.

At least shit weighed less than a corpse.

Sorena barrelled her chest with air and lifted the handles of her cart once more. The wheels creaked in protest as she pushed onwards. Her legs burned as she trudged down the rocky hill, heading northeast toward the furthest part of the village, where civilization bled into the endless bone-white desert.

The path grew narrower, the homes leaning into each other for support like broken ribs in a collapsed chest. Years of foot traffic and endless carts dragging through the streets had chipped away the stone paths and turned them into hardened dirt. The incinerator was only a few blocks away, at the outside border of the Northern Slums. Its towering stone chimney was visible against the pale sky, belching out thick plumes of charcoal-coloured smoke.

A more direct route through the Slums would have been ideal, rather than winding her way through the Common Quarter. Unfortunately, the tangled sprawl of buildings made it impossible to bring a cart through. What few pathways existed were choked with rotted wood and sewage pooling in shallow ditches.

The Slums were infamous for housing the most desperate criminals. Sorena wasn’t worried about getting attacked; her odour was enough to keep pickpockets away, but she had no interest in getting stuck again. The first and last time she attempted to navigate the Slums with her cart, she had lost half the day to shoving it through gutters clogged with filth, forcing it over piles of discarded bones, and wedging herself between alleys so tight she could barely turn around.

She would have abandoned the cart entirely if returning empty handed didn’t risk her job.

Better to take the long way.

Sorena glanced up at the ragged skyline, where rooftops sagged under layers of grime and patched tarps, and wooden beams jutted out like spears. A pair of barefoot children scrambled across the rooftops, scaling the unsteady framework with practiced ease. Their muddied faces made it hard to tell their age, but their movements were quick, almost feline. One of them leapt between two adjoining roofs, their thin arms pinwheeling for balance, while the other crouched low, scampering along the edge of a crumbling ledge.

She shook her head. Roof-running was safer than squeezing through the streets below.

The acrid stench hit her before she even reached the Incinerator.

The soot-streaked stone fortress was reinforced with rusted metal plating to withstand the constant heat radiating from within. The massive chimney, blackened by centuries of burning waste, stretched high into the sky, spewing out greasy columns of smoke. A set of iron doors loomed ahead, the metal warping from years of scorching heat. A grated viewing slit sat near the top, though no sane person ever wanted to look inside.

When she arrived, the familiar screech of the conveyer echoed through the building, triggering a stench of chemicals and burning waste. The furnace blazed, and a blistering, thick air curled around her in a smothering embrace. A maze of ash-streaked grates lined the floor, where waste was fed into the flames below.

Bile scratched up her throat. What was worse than feces? Burning feces.

“Henry!” She called out, her voice muffled by the scarf. She yanked the cart the last few feet inside. Steering it into the designated spot, the mechanism jerked to life as it claimed her deposit. A token clattered into the tray above, and Sorena snatched it up, adding it to her collection.

From the shadows of the back room, a man emerged. His air-exchange suit was a dull gray, the faint hum of Ara flowed through it, faint sky-blue veins barely visible in the dim light. It kept him protected from the rancid smell, a luxury she couldn’t afford. Ara units were rare in the Slums, too expensive and easy to siphon if you weren’t careful. The globe of his helmet obscured most of his face, but his tired eyes were unmistakable, dark circles carving hollows beneath them.

Sorena approached the counter and dropped her tokens, waiting as Henry retrieved a pouch of aquarites. He slid the deep navy coins toward her without a word.

She counted quickly, her eyes narrowing. “You missed some,” she said, holding out her palm to show him.

Henry groaned and pointed toward the wall, where a freshly posted sign mocked her with its pristine edges. Two aquarites per token.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered through clenched teeth, her polite tone cracking. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to hurl the coins back at him, but she bit her tongue. It wasn’t his fault.

Henry stared at her for a moment before turning and retreating into the back room without a word. As always. She wondered if he even had a tongue. For all her visits here, she had never heard him speak.

Sorena pocketed the coins, her jaw tight.

That had been her last hire for the day. Out of work until tomorrow. Not good.

Exiting into the narrow alleys, she yanked her scarf off and spat the foul taste from her mouth. The heat clung to her like a vulture, greedy and patient, tasting every part of her it could reach. She would have killed for a sip of resper. The sharp, green brew was as menacing as it was refreshing; jolting the senses awake with its bitter burn.

She squinted at the sun, it glared just east of the bazaar tower. Mid-day. The golden rays streaked through the latticework of scaffolding and canvas awnings. It was the worst time to be caught in the open, yet the best time to blend in.

“Draven!” Her last name cracked through the air, coiling around her spine like a noose.

Sorena stiffened, schooling her expression before turning. Foolish, to think the gods might show mercy today.

The enforcer cut across the narrow alley toward her, emerald cloak billowing with the self-importance he always carried. He wasn’t a tall man, but what he lacked in height, he more than compensated for with girth. His bulk was wrapped in layers of privilege, the kind only a Porcelain could afford. His uniform, pristine despite the dust-filled streets, carried the scent of expensive perfumes that failed to mask the underlying musk of spoiled wine. His cuff gleamed against his wrist, a symbol of the goddess’s protection.

He swept a glance over her. “You’re a tough woman to find.”

Sorena clenched her jaw. He was inescapable.

“Avoiding me again, are we?”

“Clearly not well enough,” she muttered under her breath, already regretting it.

His brows lifted into his manicured hairline. “What was that?”

She forced a grin, nails pressing into her palms. “Said I’m always happy to see you, Alastar.” Sorena crossed one foot behind the other and dipped into a mock curtsey.

His mouth twitched. “You Fades really don’t understand how dangerous your sarcasm is,” he said, his tone almost paternal. “I could report that.”

“Could,” she agreed, “but then you’d have to explain why you keep following me.”

Darkness flickered over his eyes. Like a serpent basking in the sun, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Without warning, his hand clamped around her wrist. A clammy grip, thick fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her slightly off balance. Sorena stiffened as he lifted her wrist, turning it as if inspecting a fine piece of silverware.

“I worry about you,” he said quietly, bringing her fading purification brand under the catch of light. Three tight loops spiraled on her wrist, scorched into her flesh. “You’re overdue for a visit to the temple,” he mused.

She yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist. “I’ll be there before nightfall.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “You can’t risk letting the infection fester. Don’t be late.”

He didn’t say it like a threat, but she still fought back the urge to spit at his feet.

“Speaking of late…” Alastar tapped the parchment rolled under his arm. “Your land dues. You’re late… again.”

Sorena tensed. She tried to hide the contempt from her features, but she could feel the heat rising up her neck. The dues were supposed to be paid two days prior. Now, with the incinerator tokens devalued, she would need longer than she thought.

“I just need another day,” she lied, keeping her voice level. Desperation was a scent men like Alastar craved.

His expression softened into what he probably thought was kindness, “I’m not the enemy here, Draven.”

Sorena raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve offered to help you,” he said. “I could file for sponsorship. You and your family could be under my protection. A regular stipend.”

Sorena’s stomach turned. She would sooner dump herself in the incinerator than take that man’s offer. An enforcer’s protection: all for the small price of her dignity. She had always provided for her family—kept them safe. Her younger siblings deserved a real childhood. But the weight of survival was pressing harder than ever.

Was preventing their suffering worth her pride? Yes. It was.

But she would find a different way. One that didn’t involve becoming a Porcelain’s pet.

“I’m afraid I’m running late.” She stepped past him, faster than he could react. “Must be on my way.”

Alastar called after her, but didn’t follow. “I’d hate to see you lose your home.”

She didn’t turn back. Not today, bastard.

Her feet moved at a renewed pace now that she was several stones lighter. Retracing her path, she moved through the Common Quarter, past the Exchange, and into the heart of the village. The market was a sea of churning bodies, a labyrinth of narrow paths winding between stalls and permanent storefronts. Built in concentric circles around the bazaar watchtower, the market pulsed with movement. A large chime, fashioned from dark iron, hung near its peak, set to toll with each passing shard.

It was only the thirteenth mark. She had some time to kill.

Awnings of faded reds, oranges, and yellows draped over stalls, offering small patches of shade where vendors displayed their goods. The outer ring of the market housed the cheapest wares: scraps of fabric, dented cookware, and tools with more rust than function. Children darted between the crowd, their quick hands snatching loose trinkets before disappearing into the maze of alleys beyond.

Further in, the stalls grew sturdier, their wares more valuable—imports mostly, smuggled or sold by those who still had means to travel. Artisans displayed finely carved wooden charms, pottery glazed in earthy tones, and leather-bound books. Fresh produce was rare and guarded, its vibrant colour a kind of cruelty amid the browns and grays of dry grain.

The familiar pulse of the Ara grid thrummed gently under her boots. To most, it was an imperceptible hum, no more noticeable than a change in the wind. However, Sorena had learned the distinct feel of it years ago. The quiet rhythm of power shifted beneath the streets, feeding directly into the reservoir at the transport base, adjacent to the watchtower. Ara—more valuable than any coin—was ready to be accessed and exchanged here by the wealthy merchants.

The wide, reinforced structure loomed nearby. Merchants’ excess cargo was stored inside, guarded by emerald-cloaked enforcers whose vibrant staffs caught the sun like sharpened glass.

A sharp hiss echoed through the transport stalls, followed by the distinct clatter of claws against wooden planks. Sorena stiffened. She didn’t need to see them, she could smell them: damp scales, earth, and thick musk of muscles barely contained. Shade lizards, bred for speed and endurance. They were the lifeblood of the traders, capable of carrying heavy loads across the villages with remarkable speed, but they were temperamental at best, vicious at worst. Thankfully, they weren’t venomous. But that didn’t mean she wanted to lose a hand either.

She veered instead toward the swarm of civilians, who were armed with a different, dormant type of danger. The marketplace was alive with chatter, but it was merely a shadow of its former self.

“Sweetheart, we can only get one...”

“Move, move, they’ll be gone soon!”

“Out of the way!”

She drifted through the press of bodies, eyes catching on strangers without meaning to. A limping woman, child on her hip, weighing a bundle of wheat against a vendor’s glare. A hunched man re-arranging withered herbs. A young girl crouched in the shadows, eyes leering at the merchant stalls.

At the heart of Bloomrise, the village should have been bursting with the fragrance of fresh harvests and sun-warmed bread, voices lifted in laughter, arms full from work worth doing. The fields, however, remained threateningly barren. The laughter was gone, and hope, like the harvest, had begun to rot.

Sunlit Plains was starving. Not just for food, though hunger gnawed at every Fade’s belly. The village craved relief: an end to the worsening isolation that gripped with every passing cycle. Imports from bordering villages had become their lifeline, but that lifeline was fraying. Highland Oasis had tightened its borders, blaming the spread of blight; fearful of bringing the disease to their homeland. Only those with proper permits were allowed through adjacent villages, leaving the seasoned merchant guilds to charge as they pleased.

Sorena’s gaze drifted north, toward the Ferris Oasis, shimmering like an illusion against the distant horizon. Emerald towers rose above cascading aqueducts, and mosaic-tiled homes loomed over lush gardens that never wilted. Everything gleamed with a taunting display of wealth and excess. Obsidian towers speared the sky, glinting like sentinels over the desert beyond, where Sorena’s village faded into the sand.

Very few had the skills and supplies necessary to leave the Oasis and navigate through the desert, braving the endless stretch of sand, where blistering winds could flay the skin from bone.

A flash of red darted through the shifting bodies, breaking her thoughts.

Sorena sighed, already moving, her path weaving through the crush of shoulders and sweat-slicked limbs. The humid press of bodies made it harder to breathe, the air thick with sweat and dust.

She reached out, plucking the berry-coloured cap from the unsuspecting head.

“Hey!”

A pair of small hands shot up in alarm, but too late.

Sorena bit back a grin, feigning sternness. She turned the cap over in her hands like contraband. “Rayden Draven,” she said with mock gravity, “truly, you are the worst fugitive in the Plains.”

Rayden huffed, puffing out his chest. “I was being stealthy.”

“You’re about as stealthy as a shade lizard in heat.”

He squawked, “they are stealthy!”

“No, they’re twitchy, loud, and smell like hot piss.”

He wrinkled his nose, muttering, “You smell like hot piss.”

She snorted, catching his elbow and pulling him into a headlock.

“Stop it!” he squeaked, squirming against her hold as she ruffled the loose curls on his head. “You reek!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said, releasing him with a laugh. “Mother’s going to lock you in the cupboard one of these days.”

“I’ll be back before she notices,” he grumbled, rubbing his scalp.

Sorena arched a brow. “Maybe,” she started, fitting the cap back on his head, “next time don’t wear red if you’re trying to blend in.”

“It gives me personality.” He shrugged.

“Well,” she quipped, “you’ve already got enough personality for the whole Oasis. Any more and the village might collapse under the weight.”

“At least I have personality.”

She gasped in mock offense, slapping a hand to her chest. “How dare you speak to your beloved sister that way. After all I’ve done—after all I’ve washed–”

“You still smell like piss.”

She cackled, grabbing his cheeks between her fingers. “One day, I’m going to trade you for a less mouthy child.”

“You wouldn’t survive without me,” he said, ducking out of her grip and sticking his tongue out. “You should thank the gods for sending me to bless you!”

Before she could reply, a deep toll rang out from the watchtower above them. The iron chime cracked through the air like a warning shot. Her eyes flicked toward the tower just as flashes of emerald cloaks cut through the crowd, shifting position outside the transport base. A commotion had broken out near one of the vendor stalls, a toppled crate scraping on the stone.

Her smirk faded, tucking Rayden closer and guiding him into the cover of the crowd. “Pretty sure the gods sent you as a warning,” she murmured, tone lighter than her thoughts.

“Warning about what?”

“That trouble comes in small, loud packages.”

The boy’s lips jutted forward, and his brows knitted together. “I’m not that loud.”

“You’re lucky I found you before the enforcers did,” she said, softer now. Her gaze lingering on the nearest patrol. “They don’t ask questions when they’re in a foul mood.”

“They’re always in a foul mood,” he murmured. Rayden didn’t argue, he had learned that lesson before.

“Why’d you sneak off this time, Ray?”

“I had a reason.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Let me guess. The market was calling to you again? Or was it that spice vendor’s daughter this time?”

He gave a sly shrug. “A gentleman never reveals his motivations.”

A smile crept back onto her lips. Gods, he made it hard to stay angry.

Sneaking out was one of Rayden’s greatest joys, always drawn to the market’s pulse, with its constant motion and noise. Despite her attempts at teaching him to read—in the safety of their home—he found more fascination in real people than the ones bound in fictional books.

Rayden’s cheeks flushed faintly, and he fidgeted with the sleeves of his tunish. He was clearly expecting a lecture.

She shook her head. “Well, since you’re already out here,” Sorena drawled, tilting her head toward the market’s path, “come on then.”

He practically bounced beside her, his oversized tunish flapping around his ankles like a cape. He was growing too fast, nearly reaching her shoulders now. It wouldn’t be long before he outpaced her completely.

She glanced down and watched the way he flicked his fingers rhythmically while he walked. He’d tap his thumb to each finger, like he was counting something no one else could see. An unconscious habit he’d had since he was little. A few years ago, she had asked what he was doing.

“Listening to the wind,” he had said. When she pressed further, he explained that it helped him think. “Sometimes there’s too much noise in my head, so I follow the quiet sounds.”

She tried to memorize the pattern once, but it always changed. The tapping never stopped though. Especially when he was excited. Or nervous.

They were only a few paces past the vendor rows when Rayden slowed, stopping behind her.

“I found something,” he whispered.

She peeked over her shoulder, already suspicious. “Found… or took?”

“It’s not stealing if it wasn’t locked up…” he muttered.

Something cool and metallic slipped into her palm. The moment her fingers closed over it, a shiver raced down her spine. She quickly shoved the item deep into her satchel and yanked Rayden into a nearby alcove, pressing him against the stone wall.

Her grip tightened on his shoulder. “Where did you find this?”

He tilted his head toward the crowd, guiding her gaze.

There.

The sharp glint of shadowsteel bars caught her attention, the metal bars peeking from the clean leather satchel slung over Olander Red’s shoulder. Even from a distance, the dark, almost liquid sheen of the bars reflected the harsh sun like a beacon. Olander Red moved with the easy arrogance of someone who believed himself untouchable, flanked by two broad-shouldered men with watchful eyes. Hired protection. Too many villagers would love nothing more than to see him bleed.

Sorena bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. What was he doing here? Why would he risk exposure in the market at the busiest time of day? He never showed his face without purpose. The contents within her satchel suddenly felt heavier. Dangerous.

She would meet the Abyss quickly if it were uncovered. But…

Was this the opportunity she needed? If she found the right buyer for the metal, they wouldn’t have to worry about land dues for the rest of the season. Maybe, even two seasons.

But, first, she needed to find out if Olander knew it was missing. How quickly would she need to rid of it, and at what risk?

Her fingers curled. “Go home,” she said sharply. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“But–”

“No arguments.”

He opened his mouth again, but one look from her shut it.

“Go.” Sorena bent to tighten the cord securing his tunish under his neck. “And don’t find anything else on your way,” she added.

Rayden bore a glare into her, then spun on his heel with a dramatic stomp. She watched until he vanished into the shadows. Sorena exhaled, rolling her shoulders back and exited the alcove.

She couldn’t necessarily berate him for thievery; they had all been forced to make difficult choices for survival. She would, however, have to remind him what was considered a safe level of risk. Most would not try to chase after him if he took a trinket, knowing they didn’t have the energy to waste on the chase. Shadowsteel wasn’t a trinket. It was a one-way ticket on a rickshaw to the Exchange if caught.

Sorena trailed Olander from a safe distance as he approached Warren’s stall, where the merchant leaned lazily against a stack of crates, scarred arms crossed over his broad chest. The Ruby Guild medallion gleamed at his throat, a quiet threat of his employer.

His arms were bare, sleeves rolled to reveal weathered skin marred by old scars, a testament to the dangers of his trade. A curved blade hung at his side, casual but visible.

As Olander neared, the other merchants grew more alert, subtly shifting behind their stalls. More than a few bore weapons too.

Sorena slowed her pace, ears prickling as Warren spoke.

“Red,” Warren greeted, his voice smooth. “What will it be today?”

“I’m in need of services,” Olander’s sharp voice carried a clipped authority. He handed a folded piece of parchment for Warren to review. Warren took it with deliberate slowness, his other hand trailing through his beard as he considered the offer.

“Are we in agreement?” Olander pressed, impatience etched into his face.

Warren let out a low chuckle. “Sure, but I’ll need a full cycle,” he said, his gaze dropping pointedly to the shadowsteel, “and two bars.”

“One bar,” Olander snapped, his hand tightening around his satchel’s strap.

“Three.”

Olander’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “You’re insane,” he hissed, snatching his parchment back. “I’ll find someone else.”

“Woah, woah.” Warren raised his hands, his tone placating but his grin sly. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

Their conversation dipped into hushed whispers, their words lost to the murmur of the marketplace. Sorena strained to listen, but she couldn’t risk moving closer without drawing attention.

“...urgent.”

“Then take both…”

The movement of bodies around her slowed as others began to notice Olander at the stall. Sorena scanned the crowd. Resentment simmered, unspoken but palpable, in the daggers their eyes bore into him.

“Of all Fades to find Shadowsteel, why him?” A man spoke under his breath to his companion.

“Entitled piece of shit,” another gritted out.

“Which Ferris prick did he bed to let him keep that land for himself?”

A few snickers sounded around her.

“Reckon’ I’d cross the bloody desert ‘fore I’m forced to slave at the Reds’ mine.”

The words passed in murmurs, but the heat in them was unmistakable.

Sorena returned her attention to the shadowsteel only a few paces away from her, thoughts churning.

Shadowsteel had been the village’s grim silver lining, discovered entirely by accident. When blight had hollowed their fields, farmers had started digging for the source of the land’s rot. Deep in the southern fields, Olander unearthed veins of the rare metal instead. It had only ever been found in the Kingdom of Vaharas previously. Coveted for its ability to forge weapons of unparalleled durability. Rare. Profitable. And corrupting.

The Red family had wasted no time in staking their claim, turning their discovery into a full-scale mining operation, and funnelling every ounce to Ferris Oasis. Whatever deal they struck with the Godborns that allowed them to keep the land was cast in secrecy.

The Reds got the mines. Ferris got the wealth. And the Fades? They were forced to choose between hunger and exhaustion. Forced to abandon their withering farms to accept insignificant wages labouring at the mines.

The faint clang of metal drew her attention back to Warren’s stall.

The deal had been struck.

She watched Warren’s eyes gleam as he pocketed the bars. Olander spun on his heel, cloak swishing as he marched away, his guards trailing close behind.

Warren grunted and resumed arranging his wares without another glance.

She eyed the pocket where the Shadowsteel was stashed, obscured by his overlaying blade. Temptation flickered in her chest, but her fingers weren’t fast enough for that kind of theft. Her gaze travelled to the piece of parchment that was tucked loosely into the back of his waistband. Easier. Quieter. It likely held little more than a location or a name, but even a hint of information was almost certainly valuable. Could she manage to snag the note without notice?

She drifted closer, letting her gaze skim the wares as though she were browsing. Her fingers itched at her sides, flexing instinctively as she calculated the odds. Warren’s distracted hands, the swell of the crowd jostling between stalls, the shadowed alcove. Everything could align if she timed it right.

All she had to do was wait for the right moment.

Her heart quickened, but just as she shifted her weight to take the first step—

“Get away from here!” Warren barked, drawing curious glances from the crowd.

Sorena stiffened as heads turned. All her talk of safe levels of risk, and her arrogance lured her into danger again. She inhaled sharply. Darting now would draw too much attention.

As she met Warren’s gaze she realized his ire was directed at a different person.

A man had approached the stall, steps away from her. “Please, it’s all I have to trade.” His hands were unsteady, clutching something wrapped in stained cloth.

“I don’t deal in poison,” Warren hissed, his face twisting in disgust as he shoved the man’s hands away. “Get out of here before I call the enforcers.”

The man clenched his fists, his face reddening.

“You’ll starve just like the rest of us, Warren Reed,” he warned, his hollow cheeks taut with tension. “And then you’ll see what it feels like to have a wall of backs turned on you.”

He turned to leave, tucking the wrapped object into the drawstring of his trousers, but Warren wasn’t finished. A glob of spit hit the man’s cheek with a sickening splat.

Sorena gasped, her body tensing as the man froze.

The brown of the man’s irises shifted, igniting into a copper red. His glare bore into Warren, fierce enough to cut stone. The air thickened around them, heavy and oppressive.

“Wait,” Sorena reached impulsively for the man. “Don’t draw attention to–”

“Guards!” Warren’s voice cracked as he stumbled back, drawing a blade from his belt.

Before Sorena could process what was happening, the man moved. His hand shot out, seizing Warren’s throat with a strength that seemed impossible for his frail frame. Warren’s sword clattered to the ground. Gasps and cries erupted from nearby stalls as merchants scrambled to grab their weapons.

A faint red glow pulsed along the man’s arms, erratic and fevered. The air around him grew suffocatingly hot, forcing Sorena to cover her mouth with her sleeve as she coughed.

“He’s possessed!” someone yelled.

“I’ll meet you in the Abyss,” The man growled, his voice trembling with predatory fury, “And when I do… I will take pleasure in doing this over, and over, and–”

The words died on his lips as a flash of smoke burst in the scene. The sound of broken glass ricocheted off the stones at their feet.

A new coughing fit began.

Jade cloaks billowed through the crowd as enforcers marched through the chaos, their sapphire staffs glowing faintly with Ara. They slowed as they neared the scene, just for a breath. Even with their training, none of them rushed in.

The man’s hands still glowed faint red. His grip was unshaken. Warren’s face had been stripped of all colour, lungs screaming for breath.

One of the guards moved ahead of the others. His movements were decisive—wrist adorned with an emerald band etched with the royal emblem: a half-sun. He extended his staff, without a word, and a gust of flame tore through the air.

The man staggered, crying out as the Ara struck him. He dropped his hold on Warren and clutched his chest. The pale glow around his hands flickered and died. A metal collar snapped tightly around his neck. His shoulders slumped, his breath shallow, as the device took hold. The suffocating energy dispersed immediately. The heat vanished.

His panicked expression seared into Sorena’s mind.

“Fractured moons!” Warren gasped, stumbling backwards as he clutched his throat. “What are you waiting for? Kill him! He’s cursed!”

The enforcer grasped the man’s left wrist, scanning for his purification mark. From her distance, Sorena couldn’t make out any scars. The enforcer frowned and then sliced his blade across the man’s palm; blood welled out slowly. The man’s head hung low, his body limp.

“He will be taken for purification,” the lead enforcer said with clipped disdain, his grip like iron on the man’s collar. The glow of his staff extinguished, now hung back at his hip. “The goddess will decide his fate.”

A second enforcer sneered toward the gathering crowd. “Control yourselves,” he barked. “This isn’t a spectacle.”

“Lucky bastard,” Warren muttered, his voice still hoarse, as he retrieved his blade. “If I had gotten my hands on him…”

They dragged the man by his collar, his legs scraping stone as they vanished between the maze of stalls. Dust followed in their wake.

One enforcer lingered a moment longer, eyes scanning the faces in the crowd. His expression soured as he caught sight of a woman stifling sobs. He muttered under his breath, “typical Fade hysterics.”

Sorena’s hands were still trembling. Slowly, she cast her gaze back to the parchment at Warren’s hip, her plan crumbling in her mind.