Lowlight mornings weren't brighter — they were just less dark.
The rain had eased to a slow drip from the bridge ribs, tapping on tarps and the tin signs of closed stalls. Kade moved through the alleys like a current looking for the sea. The case hung from his hand, but its weight was less than the knot in his forearm.
He'd meant to go straight back to Nyx, press her for more about the receipt, but Brook's clinic was a debt magnet now. Half a winter owed meant they were on the list. Lists got you killed slower than bullets but just as thoroughly.
So he followed the chalk arrows. Not the municipal ones painted for deliveries — these were thin, almost delicate lines scrawled low on walls and crates, pointing deeper into the Lowlight's marrow. They were Riven's invitations.
The chalk ended at a doorway shaped like a grin missing half its teeth. Above it, a sign read TROPHIES in flaking red paint. The word had been crossed out in white chalk and replaced with HISTORIES.
Kade ducked inside.
The smell hit first: cedar oil, dust, and the faint tang of lumen sealed too long. Shelves rose high as the ceiling, stacked with glass cases. Each case held an object — a child's shoe, a dried bouquet, a cracked teacup — all tagged with thin parchment cards in an elegant, looping hand. The tags weren't prices. They were dates.
Behind a long counter stood the man himself.
Captain Riven was taller than Kade remembered, or maybe the room was shorter. His coat was black, but the cuffs were lined with pale fur — not for warmth, but as a frame. His hair had gone to silver at the temples in clean, deliberate streaks. He was polishing a glass dome that contained an old leather-bound book with no title on the spine.
When he looked up, his eyes did the thing good predators' eyes do — weighed Kade, filed him, and decided which part would be worth eating.
"Kade Ileri," Riven said, drawing out the surname as if testing whether it still fit. "Or should I say… No-Name?"
Kade didn't flinch. "Depends who's asking."
Riven smiled. It was the kind of smile that showed a lot of teeth without promising anything good. "A man in my position has to ask. Come closer. Let me see what the years have done."
Kade stepped up to the counter. "I'm not here for nostalgia."
"Of course you're not. Nostalgia's free. I sell preservation." Riven gestured at the rows of glass cases. "Everything here was meant to be forgotten. I keep it… presentable."
Kade's eyes roamed the cases. "Looks like a graveyard for things that didn't want to die."
"That's exactly what it is," Riven said. "And like any graveyard, it needs a caretaker."
"And you're the caretaker."
"And the undertaker, and sometimes the resurrectionist. I take what's left of a memory before the Halo burns it. I fix it in place. No more fading, no more tax. Of course, it's never as sweet as it was in life."
Kade let that hang between them. "You called me here."
"I did. I have a job. The kind of job your peculiar skill set makes… elegant."
Kade rested the case on the counter. "Define 'elegant.'"
Riven leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the polished wood. "A certain family — old money, old lumen — lost a very particular history. Not just any afternoon or birthday. A coronation dinner. The last one before the Halo was raised."
Kade frowned. "Why would anyone care about that? It's not like the Archon lets people talk about the Before."
"That's precisely why they want it. Owning a banned history is the purest kind of wealth. Rarer than gold, rarer than names." Riven's voice softened into a purr. "And they'll pay more than you've ever seen."
Kade didn't move. "Where is it now?"
Riven's smile widened. "In the possession of a Bleached scavenger who doesn't even know what he's carrying. Man's mind is a sieve. But the object is lodged in there, refusing to burn. I want you to retrieve it — and not by stealing the trinket. I want the moment."
"Extraction job," Kade said.
"Exactly. You'll go in, navigate his memory, pull the dinner out clean. No frays, no static."
"And if I leave him worse off?"
Riven shrugged. "He's already half gone. This way, at least part of him will live in a case where someone values it."
Kade's gaze slid over the shelves again. "You really believe that? That locking a moment in glass is better than letting it fade?"
Riven's eyes flicked to a case high on the wall. Inside sat a small red scarf, frayed at the edges. "Yes," he said simply.
They haggled. Kade didn't haggle for price — Riven would pay well enough. He haggled for conditions: no handler watching over his shoulder, no claiming rights to anything else he found in the Bleached man's head.
Riven agreed to both, too quickly. Which meant he wanted Kade for something bigger later.
"Do we have an understanding?" Riven asked.
Kade picked up the case, feeling the extra coin weight Riven had slid inside without him noticing. "We have a contract. Understanding's optional."
Riven laughed — not warm, not cold. Just entertained. "Bring me back the dinner, Kade. And remember — every gift is a trap."
Outside, the Lowlight had begun to stir properly. Hawkers were lighting gutter-lamps, the orange rain just mist now, enough to make the air taste faintly sweet. Kade walked with his collar up, replaying Riven's smile in his head. The man had always had a way of making you feel like part of his collection before you'd agreed to it.
At the corner where the Lowlight met the market proper, Nyx was leaning against a post, her key necklace rattling as she shifted her weight.
"You've been to see the Taxidermist," she said.
"Word travels."
"In here?" She tapped her temple. "Faster than light."
Kade didn't answer. He had Riven's job, Brook's half-winter debt, Mira's sickness, and a receipt for a brother that didn't exist. And somewhere between all of them was Lumi's cold-mirror, a device that might be the only way to cut his knot without bleeding his name into the Halo's waiting hands.
Nyx's eyes narrowed. "Careful with him. He doesn't preserve things because he loves them. He preserves them because he can't stand to be left out."
"Good thing I'm not memorable," Kade said.
She smirked. "Not yet."
By the time he reached the clinic, Brook was out front smoking the stub of a hand-rolled. His eyes went to the case immediately.
"You look like you just agreed to something stupid," Brook said.
"I did."
"Want to tell me about it?"
"Not until it works."
Brook took a drag, exhaled slow. "Mira's asleep. She had another flicker, but she's holding."
Kade nodded. He started to go in, but Brook called after him. "Who was it?"
Kade hesitated. "Riven."
Brook's brow furrowed. "Taxidermist Riven?"
"Captain," Kade corrected.
"Don't play for his side too long," Brook said. "Men like him only collect what they plan to bury."
Kade didn't answer. Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and candlewax. Mira's breathing was steady, her face turned toward the wall. He set the case down beside her bed and sat, elbows on his knees.
Two jobs now: one for Riven, one for himself. Both pointed toward the Archives, one way or another.
And somewhere in the middle, the Halo kept burning — steady, patient, waiting for him to run out of mornings.