They smelled the camp before they saw it.
Smoke. Boiled roots. Too many bodies breathing the same stale air.
Torches burned low, throwing shadows over patched tents and stalls. Walkers sat on crates, traded scraps, and counted tokens like gamblers. The whole place looked tired, but alive.
Riven stretched, cracking his back. "Finally. Civilization. Maybe somebody here sells stew that doesn't taste like mud."
Kael kept his hand on the Key. The marked coin at his belt felt heavier in a crowd. He didn't like eyes on him. He watched instead: how people traded, how fast hands moved, how often tokens changed owners.
Seren walked ahead like she already belonged here. She stopped at a stall where a woman sold soup. A boy tried to swap a pebble for bread and got laughed at. Seren scribbled quickly on her scrap, folded it, and dropped it into the boy's hand. The kid blinked, then smiled like she'd handed him gold.
"Hmph," Riven said. "Heartwarming. But don't get soft. These people would sell you for half a token."
Seren gave him a look that said shut up without a single word.
They found a bench near the middle. Old Walkers argued over a ledger, tokens clinking. One muttered about a woman named Lyra Ashveil — paid well for information.
Kael stiffened at the name. He said nothing.
A thin trader with a hooked nose slid by, whispering. "Don't flaunt coins here. Especially marked ones. They buy favors… and enemies." He smiled like it was both advice and a threat.
Kael touched his pocket, feeling the coin like a burn.
They bought bowls of thin soup. It smelled worse than it tasted. Kael forced it down, letting the warmth settle in his throat.
"This tastes like wet rope," Riven muttered between slurps. "But hey, better than dying."
Seren wrote idiot and handed it to him.
"Pfft." Riven grinned, not offended.
A kid offered them a map for three tokens. It showed tunnels and notes like avoid deep well. Half rumor, half truth. Seren tucked it away without a word.
Around them, Walkers whispered, watched. In the Labyrinth, food was worth more than names, but both could kill you.
When the camp grew quiet, a deep note rolled through the stone.
BOOOONG.
The sound crawled into their bones. People stirred, muttered, but didn't run. The gong wasn't always death. Sometimes it was just the Labyrinth reminding everyone it was watching.
Riven rubbed his face. "Hear that? Rent's due. I'm not paying."
Seren shoved a scrap at him: Stop being loud.
Kael almost smiled. Almost.
He lay down with the Key in his hand. The soup sat heavily, but it was food. For one short night, that was enough.
BOOOONG. The gong echoed again, softer this time, like the Labyrinth closing its book for the day.