Brassrest was heavy with damp heat by midday, the kind that clung to stone and skin alike. Kaelen kept to the narrower streets, head down, letting the crowd carry him along while his eyes lingered on glass panes and rain-slick metal to catch whatever followed. Nothing yet. Either his tail had peeled off, or they were better than he thought.
First stop was supplies. He haggled through the docks' open stalls for a pack of field rations, pressed grain, salted strips, bitter enough to last weeks. Prices had climbed since his last run. He paid anyway. A patch kit for his harness came next, the straps still frayed from South Docks. A bundle of ward tags after that, plain scripted, nothing fancy.
If I'm serious about chasing Nexus, I can't limp into the next fight half-equipped. Not with shadows sniffing at my heels.
The last stall keeper slid the tags across the counter without comment, and Kaelen tucked them into his coat. He paused outside, breathing in the city's press of smoke and ward-dust. East Dock markets could scrape by for the basics. But real gear, the kind that wasn't counterfeit or held together by spit and luck, that only moved in one place.
The Central Under Market. He'd never set foot inside. He'd heard enough to know it wasn't the sort of place you walked into cold.
If Nexus is tied to the underbelly, somewhere down there, someone's heard whispers.
That left the question of entry. Brassrest's biggest market wasn't open ground; it was run, guarded, and fenced by people who didn't forgive trespassers. He needed someone who could vouch for him.
Which meant Taren.
It had been years since the orphanage, years since Joren had chosen the shadows while Kaelen had put his name on Guild forms. Word was he'd tied himself to one of the neutral factions, the ones who kept the Market breathing by staying out of Guild wars and Black Cord feuds. Not Enforcers. Merchants, smugglers, the kind who profited on everyone's grudges.
Kaelen slipped a warded slip to a neutral runner, no Guild seal, just his name and a place to meet. The message was simple: Need a way in. Name your price.
He sent it, then leaned against the railing above the docks, watching ships slide in under the haze of wardlight. The sea air stung faintly of brine and coal. He'd never liked waiting.
We grew up together. He ran shadow, I ran Guild. And now I'm the one knocking on his door.
The sun had dropped behind the western wards by the time Kaelen reached the meeting place, a crumbling stairwell that sank beneath a shuttered tannery, half-choked with weeds. It was the same spot the orphans used to use as a hideaway, back before the officials cared enough to clear them out.
Taren was already there, leaning against the rail. He hadn't changed much, wiry frame, restless eyes, the kind of grin that looked more like a test than a greeting. His coat was patched but better quality than Kaelen remembered, lined with a faint shimmer of ward-thread.
"You took your time," Taren said, voice pitched casual, though the smirk carried edge. "What's the matter, couldn't find your way without me?"
Kaelen stopped two steps above him. "You got my slip."
"Neutral runner. No Guild seal." Taren's gaze flicked to Kaelen's empty lapel, checking for steel. "Good. We don't bring badges to where we're going."
"I need a way in," Kaelen said. "Name your price."
Taren's grin didn't move, but his eyes did. He studied Kaelen a beat too long, like he was measuring more than coin. "Information's dearer than passage. And you smell like Guild trouble." He pushed off the rail. "You're lucky I even answered. Neutral or not, the Scales don't carry strangers on faith. If I vouch you, your mistakes are my fine."
"The Scales?" Kaelen asked.
"House that keeps the Market breathing," Taren said. "They care about trade and quiet. They don't care who you anger topside if you don't drag it down there." He tapped the stair post with a knuckle. "Three rules: no open Sparks, no badges, no debts you won't mark. Break one, and the Quiet take a cut out of both of us."
Kaelen let that sit. No open Sparks would keep half the city polite. "What's the vouch cost?"
"Two crowns," Taren said. "One for the House, so they look the other way. One for me, because if you slip, my name burns first." He held up two fingers, then added a third. "And a favour marker. One. To be called when I like."
Kaelen weighed it. Renn's bonus, another day's pay inbound at East Docks and the two jobs he'd done recently, plus what he hadn't already bled on rations and tags. It'd hurt, but he could cover it. He nodded once.
"Done."
"That easy?" Taren's mouth tilted. "Either you're desperate or you're stupid."
"Which do you want to charge for?"
That earned a short laugh. "Still sharp." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "What are you after, Kael? Passage isn't your style. You sent for me, not the other way around."
Kaelen's eyes stayed flat. "Just need a look at who's moving Sparks that shouldn't be moving, and who's been on my tail since yesterday."
Taren's grin slipped. "Now that's different. That kind of question costs more."
"You said name my price."
"And I just did." Taren rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing. "If someone's hunting you, the Market already knows it. They'll sell the story before you finish asking. So, we'll need to find which stool is peddling your name." He held out his hand, palm open.
Kaelen slid the crowns across. Taren flipped them, listening for the ring, then produced a thin brass chit no bigger than a thumbnail, a scale stamped on one side, runes fine enough to pass for scratches on the other.
"First-timers mark bond," Taren said. "House rule. Keeps the Market clean."
He pricked his fingertip with a pocket hook and smeared a dot of blood across the rune lines. The grooves shimmered, then dulled. He offered the hook.
Kaelen hesitated a breath, then followed suit. The chit pulsed once, faint heat between their fingers, before it cooled. The runes flickered once and went still.
"That's your leash," Taren said, tucking it away. "If you bolt or spark trouble, the Quiet'll come for me. Which means I'll come for you first."
He glanced down the stairwell, then added, "It cuts both ways. While that chit's live, you're under my name. Anyone tries to lean on you before you learn the ropes? They're leaning on me. And the House doesn't like brawls between its own."
Taren tucked the chit away. "That's it, then. Closest entrance is fifteen minutes. Keep your head down."
He set off without waiting, cutting down the narrow lane. Kaelen followed.
Brassrest's night was thick and damp, ore-lamps painting the streets in slow, patient light. Workers still drifted from the docks, carts trundling with loads that creaked under their chains. The smell of fish oil clung to everything.
Taren wove them through the crowd with the same restless ease he always had, slipping between stalls, ducking side alleys Kaelen had never noticed. The city shifted as they walked: first noise and food smoke, then tighter streets, fewer lamps, and the quiet weight of places that didn't care to be found.
"You'll want to keep your eyes down past here," Taren murmured. "Neutral doesn't mean safe. Look too long at the wrong face, you'll buy yourself a fight before you've spent a coin."
Kaelen didn't answer. He just matched his pace.
They reached an old drainage arch at the end of a forgotten lane, its bricks black with mildew. From the street it looked like nothing but a sealed culvert. Taren rapped once on the stone, then pressed his palm flat.
The wall shivered. Runes stirred faintly, not glowing but tightening, as if the brick itself had remembered him. A seam edged open.
Two Quiet waited inside, brass-thread cuffs catching the lamplight. Their coats hung heavy, shapes wrong where knives were hidden.
"House business?" one asked.
"Vouch one," Taren said.
The Quiet's gaze slid over Kaelen, then back to Taren. The bond was already marked; that was enough. One stepped aside.
"House rules hold," the taller one said flatly.
"Always," Taren answered, and pushed Kaelen forward.
The door sealed behind them with a low grind of stone.
The Market opened under their feet.
It wasn't a cavern. It was a city folded inside another city: galleries and bridges carved into stone ribs, walkways latticed over a pit that ran for blocks. Ore-fed lamps glowed in patient rows, their light veined through the walls themselves. Carts rattled without horses, stalls clung to ledges, and voices pressed close and bare under the weight above. The air smelled of resin, hot solder, and raw ore.
Kaelen let the scale of it hit him, shards glimmering in glass cases, jars of pigment burning faintly, coils of rune-wire strung like drying nets. Noise and heat throbbed like a second pulse in the bones of the place.
Taren steered him onto a narrow balcony. "Eyes ahead. Market doesn't like fresh faces counting doors."