Time/Date: Late Afternoon, TC1853.01.01
Location: Fifth Ring → Sixth Ring Border → The Gilded Reed Pawnshop
Raven stayed in the broken hovel until her breathing steadied and the sharp ache behind her eyes dulled to something manageable. Soul strength trickled back slowly—a faint ember rekindling in her chest. Wasn't much compared to what she remembered from merit worlds, but it was enough. She had to move before dusk settled over the Fringe, before scavengers and worse predators began their nightly prowls through the ruins.
Getting back required careful planning. Three repaired communicators represented more wealth than most Fringe dwellers saw in a year. Made her a target for anyone desperate enough to risk violence. She wrapped each device in cloth scraps torn from her sleeve, muffling any sounds, then distributed them between her salvage pouch and hidden pockets she'd sewn into her coat over the years.
One communicator went into her soul space—insurance against theft and a tool she'd need when Amara's scheme unfolded. The other two would become her first real investment in independence.
By the time she boarded the rattling transport back toward the Fifth District, the weight in her pouch felt heavier than all her bronze tigers combined. The communicators hummed faintly with residual energy from their repairs. Both reassuring and terrifying. This was it—her one chance to turn salvage into legitimate wealth.
***
The Fifth District bustled with festival energy as afternoon shadows stretched longer. Crimson lanterns swayed overhead like droplets of liquid fire, painting crowded avenues in celebration colors. Press of merchants and revelers provided perfect cover for someone who needed to move unnoticed.
Raven kept her head down as she walked the curved streets, just another face in the festival crowd. She crossed the ornate bridge spanning the artificial canal that marked district boundaries, boots clicking against stones polished smooth by countless feet. Here, the empire's rigid hierarchy showed itself in architecture and atmosphere—Fifth District's commercial abundance giving way to Sixth District's organized prosperity.
At the border between districts, tucked between a shuttered bathhouse with classical columns and a tailor's guildhouse displaying their finest work, stood an unremarkable brick building. No sign hung above its heavy wooden door. No windows opened onto the street to reveal its interior. To strangers passing by, it was nothing—maybe a warehouse, maybe offices for some minor bureaucracy.
To Raven, it was a calculated risk wrapped in necessity. The Gilded Reed.
She'd first come here six years ago, clutching a silk scarf Selene had declared "unsuitable for a woman of breeding." The humiliation of that first visit—a supposed daughter of nobility reduced to hawking cast-offs—had burned like acid. But it'd also taught her how the shadow economy functioned, how the empire's rigid class system created profitable gaps for those willing to exploit them.
***
The heavy door opened at her touch, revealing an interior that spoke of quiet wealth and carefully maintained discretion. Air was cool and perfumed faintly with sandalwood—marked contrast to the chemical-scented atmosphere of the Fringe. Polished counters gleamed under steady lamplight, surfaces unmarked by the wear that plagued less prosperous establishments.
Behind the main desk stood a neatly dressed man whose every detail spoke of professional competence. Dark hair was oiled and combed with mathematical precision. Clothing is expensive but understated. The posture of someone who dealt with valuable things as a matter of course. When he looked up from the ledger he'd been studying, recognition lit his pale eyes.
"Ah, Miss Brenner," he greeted smoothly, voice automatically lowering to the discreet tones that made fortunes in places like this. "And what brings you to us today?"
The words were ritual, a practiced script worn smooth by years of repetition. For six years, Selene had dispatched her here, burdened with trinkets, jewelry, or silks she no longer wanted. Not from sentiment or casual waste—Selene remembered too well her years of exile from the Lin family, when noble birth meant nothing and creditors demanded payment in currency rather than bloodline. Every bronze tiger mattered to someone who'd once scraped for survival.
"Mother has acquired newer models," Raven said evenly, tone carrying the bored efficiency of someone conducting routine business. She drew out the first repaired communicator and placed it carefully on the polished counter. "She wants these converted to funds."
The merchant's eyebrows lifted slightly—surprise, perhaps, at the device's quality, or appreciation for what appeared to be a particularly valuable commission. He picked up the communicator with the careful touch of someone who understood that careless handling could damage delicate components.
"This appears in excellent condition," he observed, turning it slowly under lamplight. "Better than most devices we handle. Your mother maintains her equipment well."
Raven watched him work, expression calm while her heart hammered against her ribs. This was the critical moment—if her repairs had been flawed, if some detail betrayed the device's origin in salvage yards, everything would unravel.
"I'll need to verify its registration status, of course," the merchant continued, setting the communicator down with careful precision. "Standard procedure for all communication devices."
He slid the device into a polished scanner built into his desk, the surface coming alive with glowing runes as the machine began its work. The scanner hummed with precision technology, probing the communicator's identity markers with thoroughness that spoke of imperial oversight.
"Each communicator carries unique registration codes," he explained while they waited, though his tone suggested routine explanation rather than necessary education. "When citizens purchase new devices through authorized dealers, old registrations are automatically voided. This creates a legitimate secondary market for deregistered units, though one requiring... careful documentation."
Raven nodded slightly, projecting patient understanding of someone familiar with bureaucratic procedures. Inside, her pulse quickened. The devices she'd salvaged had been discarded precisely because their registrations were already void—original owners had replaced them or died, triggering automatic removal from the imperial database.
A soft chime sounded, sweet and clear as temple bells. The merchant leaned back in his chair, relief easing tension around his eyes.
"Clean registration," he announced with professional satisfaction. "Properly voided through official channels. Your mother follows proper procedures, as always."
***
The praise was automatic, but Raven caught the undertone of approval. Merchants who dealt in questionable goods appreciated clients who minimized legal risks through competent preparation.
"Shall we proceed with valuation?" the merchant asked, hands moving to prepare assessment tools.
"Please," Raven replied, settling back to observe.
The merchant placed the communicator in his desk's center like a jeweler displaying a precious stone, expression taking on the particular focus of someone preparing to negotiate over significant sums.
"A quality piece," he began, voice carrying measured cadences of practiced evaluation. "Recent manufacture, excellent condition, clean registration status. The secondary market for such devices is... complex. Legal, but requiring discretion and proper handling."
Raven remained silent—a technique she'd learned through years of watching market negotiations. Silence made people uncomfortable, forced them to fill voids with words that often revealed more than intended.
The merchant cleared his throat after a moment. "New communicators retail for one hundred gold dragons through authorized dealers. However, once a device enters the secondary market, various factors affect its value. Processing fees, documentation requirements, storage costs, market risk..."
His eyes flicked to her face, searching for a reaction. "Given these considerations, I can offer four gold dragons."
Raven tilted her head slightly, tone remaining conversational. "Four seems quite low for a device in such condition. Mother paid full retail less than a month ago."
"The secondary market presents challenges," the merchant replied carefully. "Legal compliance, reputation management, various overhead costs—"
"I understand business has its complexities," Raven interrupted gently, then leaned forward with the air of someone sharing useful information. "But I also understand market dynamics. Quality communicators in this condition typically command seven to eight gold dragons in secondary trade. That's the rate Mother has come to expect based on her... research into current market conditions."
The merchant's expression shifted slightly. Not fear, but wariness of someone recognizing his customer possessed better market knowledge than expected.
"Your mother has been... researching secondary market rates?" he asked carefully.
"Mother makes it her business to understand the value of her investments," Raven replied with a small smile that suggested depths of knowledge she wasn't fully revealing. "She's found that informed clients tend to receive more equitable treatment."
It was a subtle threat wrapped in reasonable business sense. The implication that Selene had been comparing his offers to competitors, that she possessed enough market intelligence to recognize unfair pricing, carried weight without requiring explicit intimidation.
The merchant tapped nervous fingers against his desk, mental calculations now including the risk of losing a regular client to better-informed competitors.
"Seven gold dragons," he offered after a moment's consideration. "That accounts for the device's excellent condition and your family's... valued patronage."
Raven weighed the offer briefly. Seven gold dragons represented enormous wealth by her standards—more than she'd ever possessed at once. Pushing for more carried risks that outweighed potential gains.
"Seven is acceptable," she agreed, extending her hand across the counter.
***
The merchant's relief was obvious as he reached for his locked drawer, retrieving a small velvet pouch. The soft clink of precious metal was unmistakable as he counted out coins with practiced precision.
"Seven gold dragons," he confirmed, sliding the pouch across the polished counter. "A pleasure doing business, as always."
Raven tested the pouch's weight, then slipped it into her sleeve with movements that spoke of long practice in concealing valuables. The merchant watched with professional approval—clients who understood discretion made his work easier.
"There may be additional devices in the coming days," she mentioned casually as she turned toward the door. "Mother is considering updating her entire communication suite."
The merchant's eyes brightened at the prospect of future commissions. "We would be delighted to assist with any future needs."
Raven nodded once, then stepped back into the afternoon light of the Sixth District, the heavy door closing behind her with solid finality. In her sleeve, seven gold dragons clinked softly with each step—more wealth than she'd ever possessed, earned through skill and calculated risk rather than inherited privilege.
Seven gold dragons. Enough to fund what came next, but she'd still need the second communicator's sale. Going to need money for clothes, food, and safe accommodation when she finally left the Brenners. Plus resources for whatever tools her plan required.
She still had the second repaired communicator hidden in her salvage pouch, but that transaction could wait. One major sale per day was the limit of safety. She needed time to plan her next moves carefully. The third communicator, safely stored in her soul space, would remain her personal tool—a line of communication that belonged to no one but herself.
For the first time in seventeen years of life, real wealth pressed against her skin. Not borrowed luxury or cast-off scraps, but money she'd earned through her own abilities and courage.
The weight of those seven gold dragons felt like the first step toward something larger than mere survival. Felt like the beginning of power.
Walking through the Sixth District's prosperous streets as evening shadows deepened, Raven allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Somewhere behind her, the broken hovel in the Forgotten Fringe had already released her presence like smoke dissipating in the wind. Ahead lay five more days until Amara's scheme unfolded at the banquet.
Five days to convert her remaining communicator into additional funds. Five days to prepare for a confrontation that would determine the shape of her entire future. Five days to ensure she was ready when the trap snapped shut—on the wrong target.
The game was beginning in earnest. And for the first time in any of her lives, she was starting with real advantages.
The festival lanterns swayed overhead as she disappeared into the evening crowd, just another shadow among thousands. But in her sleeve, gold dragons clinked with each step—a quiet promise that this time, things would be different.
This time, she would be ready.