It began as rumors in the dark: a new market beneath Veltrin's bonewalks, where words were bartered in shadows and secrets traded like coin.
They called it the Whisper Market.
And it started with a lie about Sykaion.
Zeraphine heard it first.
Her Concordium trace node picked up bursts of unregistered chatter: encrypted forums, tunnel scribes, even memory-echoes encoded in street music. All repeating the same phrase:
> "He's buying souls and rewriting names."
She stood above the shop, arms crossed, her pulse spiking. She hadn't slept in days, not because of fear—but because every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Not just Sykaion now.
But Sykaion before. Or somewhere else. Someone her memories didn't quite contain.
And it was worse than affection.
It felt like a familiarity she hadn't earned.
Arlyss appeared beside her.
"They're calling him a name-thief now. You hear that?"
Zeraphine didn't look at her. "It's not true."
"Doesn't matter. They believe it. That's what rumors do."
Arlyss's hand rested near her hilt. Not tense. But ready.
"Let's find out where it started," she said. "If it spreads too far, it won't matter what he's actually done. They'll come for him anyway."
Zeraphine nodded.
Together, they descended into the tunnels.
Neither spoke of how odd it felt—to hunt rumors for Sykaion, not against him.
Below the main Sprawl, the Whisper Market pulsed like a wounded heart. There were no signs, no stalls. Just voices. Stories encoded into light tattoos. Bits of code etched into moving walls. Vendors selling names wrapped in silk.
Zeraphine activated her trace lens.
Lines of information surged.
"He traded a woman's silence for a courthouse override—"
"—a kid's drawing for System immunity—"
"—a gang's confession for a public monument—"
"—he's not a merchant, he's a myth."
Arlyss growled. "They're rewriting him into something he isn't."
"Or something they need him to be," Zeraphine muttered.
Then they found the voice.
A girl in her teens. Thin. Eyes too old. Reciting a chant:
> "If you can't afford mercy, sell him your shame."
Zeraphine stepped forward. "Where did you hear that?"
The girl smirked. "From a man who claimed to see him cry."
Arlyss stepped in. "And what did you pay to learn that?"
The girl looked at them both. Then whispered:
"Nothing. He gave it freely. That's the problem."
Zeraphine felt it then. A coil of emotion tightening in her chest.
Because she wasn't afraid of what they were saying about Sykaion.
She was afraid it might be true—that he was giving pieces of himself away too fast, and someday soon there'd be nothing left.
They returned to the shop hours later.
The door was still open.
The brass feather still glowed.
Inside, Sykaion was asleep at the counter. A child had covered him with a blanket.
Neither woman spoke.
Zeraphine reached forward first, her hand hovering over his wrist.
Arlyss's voice was low. "You care for him."
Zeraphine didn't flinch. "So do you."
Arlyss looked down. "I'd die for him. But I don't think I know what he'd do for me."
Zeraphine whispered, "Maybe that's the point. Maybe none of us know. Maybe he doesn't know."
Sykaion stirred.
Eyes half-open.
He looked at them both.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Just tired.
And said, softly:
> "Did you hear it too?"
Neither asked what he meant.
Because they had.
And in the silence between them, the whisper market pulsed beneath the floor.
Waiting.
Listening.
Growing.